Fun and Games - Duane Swierczynski [39]
Sweet, sweet Andrew—her secret nonboyfriend. The nonboyfriend that no one else on earth knew about. The nonboyfriend who was the exact opposite of her for-show, management-sanctioned actor boyfriend. Who was a complete and utter douche.
As she ran for her life, she knew Andrew was pretty much the only person in Los Angeles County who would not think she was crazy, who wouldn’t judge her, who wouldn’t turn her away. Who understood her situation, and what had happened three years ago. Exactly the kind of person you want to have in your corner when hunted by faceless killers.
And…
He wasn’t home.
Why wasn’t he home?
Lane was mildly hurt that he hadn’t told her somehow—even in a Twitter DM—that he’d gone off to Russia. Russia, as in halfway around the fucking world. True, the last conversation they’d had was a sloppy drunken late-night phone fight, but that wasn’t enough to send someone fleeing to another hemisphere… was it? Maybe it was.
So she’d lied to Charlie the House Sitter about knowing this place, figuring the less she drew Andrew into this mess, the better. She lied about not knowing the security codes, lied about not knowing the owner of the house. Over the past six months they’d spent a lot of time in the bedroom on the bottom floor, getting high and talking about stupid things.
It had been very nice to just talk about stupid things.
“Secret closet?” Hardie said, raising an eyebrow.
“I swear to God, it’s this weird closet behind the closet. I crawled in there to hide, and I must have tripped the opening mechanism. I crawled back in there and closed it behind me and—”
“Secret closet,” Hardie repeated.
“You don’t believe me? Go down and take a look for yourself. It’s all there. Along with a couple pounds of pot, if you’re into that sort of thing.”
“Oh, no, I believe you about the secret closet. Totally makes sense. This is L.A., and L.A. is full of weird shit.”
“So, why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because I don’t exactly believe that you just so happened to find it while you were stumbling around in the closet, looking for a hiding space. You knew about it.”
“If I knew about it, then why wasn’t I hiding inside it when you came into the house this morning?”
“Because you were angry,” Hardie said, “and you thought I was one of them, and you wanted to kick one of their asses. So, no, I don’t believe you just happened to find this magical secret closet.”
Lane blinked, but her face didn’t betray a single emotion. Hardie supposed that’s why they paid her the big bucks.
“What, is it a little too deus ex machina for you?” she asked.
“Look, you’re talking to a guy who used to work with cops. And if there’s one thing cops are good at, it’s sniffing out bullshit. You go stomping around in it all day long, you get to be kind of an expert.”
Lane ignored him.
“You don’t know what that phrase means, do you. Deus ex machina. ‘God from a machine.’ Where an impossible problem is suddenly resolved by some new character, ability, or object.”
“I know what it means. Mr. Roach taught that in freshman-year English.”
“Gee. I didn’t learn that until drama school.”
“And now you’re changing the subject, trying to distract me from your previous serving of bullshit.”
“You thought I was lying before about people trying to kill me. And look who turned out to be telling the truth.”
“There’s probably a Latin term for that, too, what you’re doing, but I can’t think of it. Look, I don’t give a shit about your personal life. I’m not going to sell your secrets to the tabloids. And I don’t care what your boyfriend Andrew—”
“I don’t know the owner of this house! Whoever the fuck he is!”
“—was into, I really don’t. But if you do know, you probably know what he keeps in this house. Like, for instance, maybe something useful like a gun.”
Lane blinked.
“There are no guns in the house. I checked when I first broke in here. Do you think I’m an idiot?