And why?
Why would she fake a name and a past to the man who was trying to catch her rapist and her husband’s killer? A man who was trying to help her? There could only be one reason. Angela Jakes must have something in her past that she was ashamed of. Deeply ashamed of. The obvious thought popped into Danny’s mind:
Had she been a hooker back in the day? Was that the “unhappy life” Andrew Jakes had rescued her from?
It was a familiar enough story in L.A.: young, beautiful, small-town girl comes to Hollywood with dreams of making it as an actress. Falls on hard times. Hooks up with the wrong crowd …
Yet whenever Danny pictured that angelic face, those eyes so full of trust and goodness, he couldn’t bring himself to believe that Andrew Jakes had picked up his bride on Hollywood Boulevard. He hadn’t believed Angela Jakes was a gold digger either, even when all the evidence pointed to it. I was right about that. I gotta trust my instincts more.
But what were his instincts telling him now?
That was the problem. He had no idea.
After leaving the high school yesterday, he’d driven around for an hour, trying to figure out his next move. The obvious way to go would have been to drive back to Lyle Renalto’s place and confront Angela on the spot. With any other witness, Danny wouldn’t have thought twice. But he couldn’t bring himself to grill the lovely Mrs. Jakes in front of her odious attorney, who would doubtless insist on remaining glued to her side. If she did have guilty secrets, and who of us didn’t, she deserved a chance to confess them in private. Danny would understand. After everything she’d just been through, he owed her that much sensitivity at least.
So instead Danny had driven back to the station house to brainstorm with the rest of the team. Only it was actually more of a shit storm. Every lead his men had been chasing seemed to have turned into a dead end. Henning’s Venice art expert had come up with a big fat doughnut on the miniatures. The insurance scam angle looked less and less promising, as the only people who could possibly benefit from a staged robbery would be the Jakeses themselves, one of whom was dead, while the other had given away all her money. Two of Danny’s officers had been checking out the lucky charities on the receiving end of Angela Jakes’s generosity. Both seemed totally kosher, with sparklingly transparent accounts. A sophisticated computer program had gone through every violent rape in the L.A. area in the past five years, looking for any connection with art or jewelry thefts, or any connection at all that might link one of those suspects to the Jakes crime scene. Nothing. It was the same story with forensics. Prints: nothing. Semen analysis: nothing.
Danny pulled on a pair of sweatpants and stumbled into the kitchen to fix himself a strong cup of coffee. It was still dark outside. The tree-lined, suburban street in West Hollywood where Danny had lived for the past six years was empty and as silent as the grave. Was Angela still asleep? Danny pictured her, dark hair spilling over a soft white pillow, her glorious body warm and naked beneath Lyle Renalto’s sheets. Was she in the guest bedroom? Christ, he hoped so.
He remembered Lyle’s contemptuous comment at the hospital: “For a detective, you’re a pretty poor judge of people. Angela and I aren’t lovers.”
Detective Danny McGuire hoped with all his heart that Renalto’s words were true.
He looked at his watch: 5:20.
If I drive over there now, they’ll still be asleep. I can see for myself which beds were slept in.
He jumped into the shower.
IT WAS SIX A.M. ON THE dot. The same uniformed maid who had been on duty yesterday answered the door. Danny thought, Poor woman. How early does she have to be at work?
The maid looked at Danny and thought, Poor man. How early does he have to be at work?
“I’m looking for Mrs. Jakes.”
“Mrs. Jakes not here.”
“Okay, look, I know Mr. Renalto’s your boss. And I know he’s not exactly thrilled about my questioning Mrs. Jakes, especially at this time in the morning. But this is a murder investigation. So I need you to please wake Mrs. Jakes, and Mr. Renalto if you have to.”
“No, you don’t understand. She not here. She leave last night. You’re welcome to come in and search the house if you no believe me.”
Unfortunately Danny did believe her. His heart began to race unpleasantly.
“Left? Where did she go?”
“I don’t know. She have a suitcase. Mr. Renalto drive her to the airport.”
Danny’s career flashed before his eyes. I should have come straight back here yesterday. I would have caught them. Now my key witness has flown the coop to God only knows where.
“What about Renalto? Did he leave with her?”
The maid looked surprised by the question. “Of course not. Mr. Renalto, he is here. He is asleeping upstairs.”
Danny pushed past her, bounding up the ornately carved staircase two steps at a time. Double doors at the end of the corridor clearly led to the master bedroom. He kicked them open. The sleeping figure under the covers didn’t stir.
“Okay, asshole. Where is she?” Danny marched toward the bed. “And you’d better have a good fucking answer or I am going to book you for obstruction of a murder investigation and personally see to it that you never practice law in this town again.”
Grabbing the heavy silk counterpane, Danny yanked it off the bed.
And really, really wished he hadn’t.
CHAPTER FOUR
TWO YEARS EARLIER …
SOFIA BASTA HUNG UP THE PHONE and hugged herself with happiness.
Her husband was coming home. He’d be here in an hour.
Husband. How she loved saying the word, turning it over in her mind and on her tongue like a piece of succulent candy. They were married now. Actually married. Frankie, her only friend through the long, dark, desperate years in New York. Frankie, the most beautiful, brilliant, perfect man on earth. Frankie, who could have had anyone, had chosen her, Sofia, to be his bride. Most mornings she still woke up and felt nervously for her wedding band, unable quite to believe her good fortune. But then she reminded herself.
I am Sofia Basta, great-granddaughter of Miriam, a Moroccan princess. I’m special. Why shouldn’t he have chosen me?
Their apartment was modest, a two-bedroom condo in the Beverly Hills postal district, but Sofia had made it warm and welcoming, delighting in creating the perfect nest for Frankie to come home to. Brightly colored cushions and throws adorned the couch in the living room, which was flooded all day long with blazing California sunshine. How Sofia loved that sunshine, after eighteen grim, overcast years in New York! The grimy city, the loneliness of the children’s home. Sofia’s life had been a nightmare back then. But it all seemed like a dream now, a story that had happened to someone else.
And what a story it was.
Sofia’s mother, Christina, had been a drug addict and sometime hooker, as ill equipped to take care of her children as she was to take care of herself. But it had not always been like that. Christina Basta grew up in great wealth, first in Morocco and later in Paris, where her parents sent her to an exclusive girls’ boarding school. Tall and slender as a gazelle with creamy skin and mellow, searching brown eyes, the spitting image of her grandmother Miriam, Christina quickly caught the eye of the Parisian modeling scouts who hung around the Rue Du Faubourg looking for fresh talent. By sixteen years of age Christina was working almost full-time. By eighteen she was living in New York, sharing a model apartment with three other girls from her agency and indulging in all the myriad