There was another factor in play now, as well. The old man had learned that Atherton’s notebook was worth far more than he had originally believed. There was more than one potential buyer with very deep pockets.
Route 66 ended in Santa Monica, California. The town was bordered on three sides by the city of Los Angeles. The fourth side faced the Pacific. Julian was sure that Anna Harris had disappeared into L.A. True, she could have continued north to San Francisco, but his intuition told him that she would feel safer in the fabulous sprawl of Los Angeles. It was, after all, a place where nothing was what it seemed. It was Hollywood, the perfect setting for a woman on the run. A new name, a new past, a new future? No problem.
There was no reason for Anna Harris to keep going. She had reached the edge of the continent.
But it soon became evident that L.A. was an even better hiding place than he had initially feared. He had been in town for nearly a month and thus far had found no trace of her. Los Angeles and the surrounding towns and communities were filled with people, including a lot of single women, trying to reinvent themselves. In California, it seemed, no one had a past.
He and the investigators he employed had hit another brick wall.
He’d settled in at the Beverly Hills Hotel for what had become a long, hard slog. There was no point in being rich if you didn’t enjoy the benefits. The hotel, with its Sunset Boulevard address, acres of groomed gardens, and palm trees, was a California dream made real.
Attractive, exciting people, including movie stars, populated the bar and reclined around the pool reading celebrity-obsessed papers like Daily Variety and the Hollywood Reporter. Two days ago he’d spotted Carole Lombard and yesterday afternoon he was sure he’d seen Fred Astaire.
The place reeked of glamour—and glamour, he had concluded, was what had been missing from his life. This impossibly gorgeous world was made for him.
“I’ll call you after I’ve had a chance to take a look at the paper,” he said into the phone.
He dropped the receiver into the cradle and caught the eye of a passing bellhop.
“Get me a copy of Silver Screen Secrets,” he said. “I’ll be out by the pool.”
“Yes, sir.”
The bellhop found him a short time later. As soon as he saw the photo splashed across the front page, a rush of exultation hit him. He had studied the picture of Anna Harris every day for nearly four months. He’d had it enlarged so that he could get to know every angle of her face, the arch of her brows, the shape of her mouth.
Her hair was styled differently in the newspaper photo. It was no longer confined in the rolled and pinned style suited to a private secretary. Instead it fell to her shoulders in deep waves. Very modern. Very Hollywood. But there was no doubt that the woman in the photo was a dead ringer for the target he had been hunting for so long.
According to the caption, her name was Irene Glasson, a reporter. She had changed her name and her occupation. Smart girl, but not smart enough, he thought. You’re mine now.
He studied the man who had his arm around Anna-Irene. The name, Oliver Ward, was vaguely familiar. He noticed the cane, and memory stirred. He read the full story.
That legendary man of magic Mr. Oliver Ward, who pulled off a disappearing act after a disastrous accident onstage, has materialized in the community of Burning Cove, California. He now operates an exclusive hotel that caters to the rich and famous of Hollywood.
Last night Mr. Ward was seen escorting Miss Irene Glasson to a notorious nightclub in the seaside community . . .
Julian put the paper aside, slipped on his sunglasses, and sat quietly, contemplating the sunlight dancing on the surface of the pool. After a moment, he smiled.
He had long ago discovered that the hunt was far more exciting than seduction and foreplay. And the kill surpassed any act of sexual release he had ever experienced.
It was at that moment when he held another person’s life in his hands—when he saw the stark terror in the eyes of a target—that he knew what it was to be fully alive.
But first things first. He had to find the notebook before he could take his time with Irene. The old man wouldn’t stop nagging him until the damned notebook was recovered.
Chapter 20
Irene was in her room, getting ready for the long drive to Los Angeles, when she heard Mrs. Fordyce calling to her from the foot of the stairs.
“Phone call, Miss Glasson.”
Mentally she ran through the very short list of people who knew she was staying at the inn and who might have a reason to call her. She came up with two names: Velma Lancaster and Oliver Ward. Considering the fact that Velma had phoned a short time ago, the odds were good that Oliver was the caller.