“You’re a hopeless romantic, Lyra. You’re going to keep driving back and forth just to satisfy your curiosity.”
“It’s not as crazy as it sounds,” she protested. “And I’m only going to keep the camera there for a week at the most … okay, maybe two weeks at the most. Is there any of that chocolate left?” she asked.
The swift change in topic didn’t bother Sidney, as she often did the very same thing. Since they’d been friends and roommates for a long while now, each understood how the other’s mind worked.
“No, you ate the last of it last night, and yes, it is, too, crazy. Driving back and forth in Los Angeles for your documentary was necessary, but continuing to battle the traffic for hours on end for no apparent reason … that’s absolutely crazy.”
“Maybe it is, but I’m going to keep on doing it. Wait just a minute, I didn’t eat any chocolate last night.”
Sidney grinned. “Okay, I ate the last of it.”
She got up and went into the kitchen and came back a minute later with a box of Cocoa Puffs cereal and a bottle of flavored water.
When she sat down, she took a fistful of cereal and handed the box to Lyra.
“You didn’t see it, Sidney,” she said as she scooped out some cereal.
“See what?” she asked, reaching for the box.
“This little oasis the size of our parking space with lush green grass and pretty flowers around the border. It’s almost a perfect square,” she added. “And in the most bizarre place, surrounded by horrible, smelly trash. You really should come with me and see it.”
Sidney surprised her by agreeing. “You’re right. I should. Maybe then I’ll be as intrigued as you are. I’ll ride with you one afternoon next week. You know what I’m thinking? That grass could be covering a grave.”
“I considered that possibility.”
“Wouldn’t that be something? A wife killed her husband, or a husband killed his wife, then dug a hole and buried her.”
“And he then planted flowers and cuts the grass out of guilt?”
Sidney laughed. “I guess a murderous husband wouldn’t bother cutting the grass.” She then suggested several other theories, all involving murder and mayhem. After suggesting one rather gruesome possibility, she was ready to buy a shovel and start digging to find out if there really was a body.
“Why is it you can only come up with brutal crimes?” Lyra asked.
Sidney shrugged. “Probably because so many of my brothers are in law enforcement. I’ve heard a lot of stories around the dining room table, and I guess it’s made me cynical.”
Lyra disagreed. She didn’t think Sidney was cynical; she just had an overactive imagination, which was why she was going to be great in the field she had chosen.
“We should get to work,” Lyra suggested. “Or neither of us will get any sleep tonight.”
Sidney agreed, and for the next several hours both of them worked in silence. Lyra finished around midnight and headed to her bedroom.
“What time will you leave for your grandmother’s?”
“Around three. I want to beat some of the going-home-from-work traffic if possible. Why?”
“Could you take those reels back for me? They have to be checked in by five on Friday, and I’ll be across campus all day. It’ll be a big help …”
“I’ll take them. It’s on my way.”
Tuesday, after class, Lyra went into Dr. Mahler’s office to discuss her extra-credit project. She told him about the garden she’d found at the back of the dump site and explained how she wanted to do a very short film about it.
“Have you finished your documentary about … what was it you chose?”
“Parks,” she answered. “I decided to do my film on Paraiso park, and that’s where I found the pretty little garden.”
He looked astounded. He braced his arms on his desktop. “Whatever possessed you to do Paraiso Park? That’s over an hour away. How did you even know about it?”
She tilted her head toward the poster on the wall. “I got the idea from you, Professor. You and your poster.”
He leaned back in his swivel chair to look over his shoulder at the wall. “I’ve had that hanging there for so long I forget about it. I grew up right next to the park,” he explained. “I got that poster at the first annual festival. Moved the following year.” He looked at Lyra. “Has it deteriorated? It has, hasn’t it?”
“Yes, it has.”
She told him how she had been filming cars and trucks dumping their trash.
“And now you want to start filming the garden on the other side of the hill?”
“I already have started filming. I switch the memory card every day. I haven’t had time to look at any of it yet. I thought I’d get your approval for the extra credit—”
“Uh hum, uh hum …”
Uh oh, he was rubbing his chin. He was going to squelch the project.
“It’s intriguing,” he admitted. “I’ll tell you what. Your grade is dependent on your documentary. Once you’ve handed it in, then maybe you can tackle the garden film. I’m concerned that it’s too much like your documentary. It’s the same notion, the same setting … but it’s up to you. Just finish one before you start on another.”
Lyra thought about Mahler’s advice as she left his office. He was right. She needed to finish the important project first, but in the meantime, she’d let the camera at the park keep taking pictures.
Friday afternoon, Lyra thought she could beat the L.A. traffic, at least until she got to the Interstate, but there was a four-car pileup and that meant she had to take a detour. She had driven the route before, cutting through the most beautiful neighborhoods. The speed limit was much slower, but Lyra didn’t mind. It was a lovely day, and she enjoyed looking at the manicured lawns and gardens.
She was driving down Walnut when she saw the sign. “Yard Sale.”
THREE
MILO SMITH WAS AN IDIOT. HE WAS ALSO A FRAUD AND A braggart.
And he didn’t have a clue. Not only did he think he was brilliant, but he actually believed that everyone else in the collection agency he worked for thought so, too. His employer, Mr. Merriam, rarely gave compliments to any of his seventy-plus employees, but just last month Milo overheard him remark to an associate that Milo had proven himself invaluable time and time again. Milo interpreted the comment to mean that Mr. Merriam would lean on him more for his “specialized” overtime work.
Like the other employees, Milo wanted to climb up the company ladder. He openly talked about that goal, yet he never discussed his number one secret goal because he knew none of them would understand. They might even laugh at him.
Milo wanted to be James Bond. Oh, he wasn’t crazy. He knew James Bond was just a character in the movies. Milo had grown up watching 007 and had seen every Bond movie so many times he’d lost count. He could repeat word for word all of the lines Bond said. Milo’s miserable childhood had disappeared as soon as one of the movies started, and for a couple of hours he wasn’t the scrawny kid who got smacked around by his old man. No, Milo was James Bond.
As an adult, Milo had gotten into the habit of praising himself. Was it any wonder he had accomplished so much at such an early age? He was exact; he followed directions—no matter how complicated or convoluted—and like all professionals, he never missed a deadline. Best of all, he kept his emotions out of the job.
He couldn’t say the same for his ego.
Milo was a hit man. Sort of. To date he had never actually killed anyone, but that was yet another fact he discreetly kept to himself.
Luck got him into the profession, being in the right place at the right time. Kind of like those pretty movie stars who got discovered while they were sipping Cokes at the drugstore fountain. Yeah, just like that.
Milo got discovered by Mr. Merriam, who happened to be walking by when Milo was beating the crap out of one of his neighbors. Mr. Merriam plucked him right out of that alley and hired him on the spot. Milo was given a tiny cubicle with a phone and a list of people to harass and threaten if they didn’t pay their debt. The collection agency was legit. A couple of credit card companies used them, and Mr. Merriam made a healthy income.
But the boss had a couple of side businesses, too. Milo didn’t know what they were, but there were times when the boss’s “clients” disappointed him, and action needed to be taken.
Milo had been working at the agency for about eight months when the boss called him into his office. Most of the other employees had gone home, and the second shift was just starting. Mr. Merriam came right out and asked Milo if he had ever killed anyone.
Feeling clever and important, Milo didn’t quite answer the question. Instead, he told the boss that he had never had any problem taking a life. He guessed he was just a natural. If he hadn’t gone to work for the collection agency, he said, killing for hire might have become his chosen profession. He was that good, he boasted.
Mr. Merriam was convinced of Milo’s sincerity and loyalty. He gave Milo his first killing assignment that night. Because he was pleased with that outcome, more jobs came in the months that followed.
Milo’s ego swelled to an even greater dimension because of the confidence Mr. Merriam was showing in him. He decided his experience and know-how should be shared with others, and so, after completing several assignments, he began to compile a list of the lessons he had learned, thinking that, when he was old and ready to retire, he could pass these lessons down to another hit man just starting out.
First lesson: wear disposable clothes.
Case in point: Marshall Delmar Jr., Milo’s first assignment.
Delmar was an investment counselor who had convinced Mr. Merriam to put money into a company that went belly-up. Mr. Merriam would have taken the loss in stride if he hadn’t found out that the slimy Delmar had sold all his shares and made a handsome profit right before the company crashed. Mr. Merriam was certain that Delmar had known the stock was going to plunge, and because he committed the sin of not sharing that information with Mr. Merriam, Delmar needed to die with all possible haste. Mr. Merriam gave Milo no other instructions than to make the death look like an accident.
Once the hit was carried out, Milo returned to Mr. Merriam and proudly stated that the police report would say that Delmar’s death was the result of a fall, that he had stumbled and hit his head on the sharp edge of his desk.
Mr. Merriam was impressed with the report, and frankly, so was Milo. How Delmar had actually met his demise was vastly different from the version Milo had concocted and then decided to believe.
Marshall Delmar lived in an overstuffed, Spanish-style house in the pretentious neighborhood known as Vista Del Pacifico. If one stood on the tiled roof of the two-story house and squinted into the sun, one might get a glimpse of the ocean on a cloudless day, which was why the home was considered ocean view and, therefore, cost millions of dollars.
Getting inside the house turned out to be surprisingly easy. Delmar was hosting a large dinner party that evening, and servants were coming and going through the kitchen entrance assisting the caterers with their trays and glassware.
Milo had done his preliminary surveillance. He knew all about the party and which catering company Delmar had hired. The staff were required to wear black pants, long-sleeved black shirts buttoned to the neck, and black shoes. Milo dressed accordingly and was able to walk in unnoticed carrying a silver tray he had lifted from the back of the caterer’s van. It was a hot summer night and no one was wearing a wrap or a coat, so he hid in the coat closet just off the foyer and patiently waited until the house had quieted down, and Delmar, a confirmed bachelor, was alone.
It was after one o’clock in the morning when Delmar turned the lights off, locked the front door, and crossed the foyer to his library.
Milo continued to wait, his hope that Delmar would retreat to his bedroom and go to sleep. Milo would use a pillow to suffocate him, and if Delmar didn’t struggle, he was certain he could make it look like the man died in his sleep.
But Delmar was screwing up the plan. He didn’t appear to be going to bed anytime soon. Milo couldn’t wait any longer. Perhaps Delmar had fallen asleep at his desk. Milo silently opened the closet door and crept across the foyer to look. Slipping on a black mask he’d stolen off a Zorro mannequin at a costume shop, he peeked inside and saw Delmar sitting at his desk, pen in hand, flipping through what appeared to be legal documents.
The library was in shadows. The lamp on the desk cast only a narrow light over the papers. The air-conditioning was running full blast, making the room frigid, but Delmar, Milo noticed, was sweating profusely. He panted as though he’d just run a couple of miles, which was kind of funny since Delmar was a good hundred and fifty, maybe two hundred, pounds overweight. Milo didn’t have any trouble sneaking inside without being noticed. He pressed against the wall hidden in darkness. Standing motionless for several seconds, he took shallow breaths as he thought about his contingency plan.
Then he remembered he didn’t have a contingency plan. Stupid, stupid, he berated himself. Now what was he going to do? He didn’t have a gun with him because he was supposed to make the murder look like an accident, and a bullet hole would be a dead giveaway.
He chewed on his lower lip while he tried to think of a clever way to do the man in. Suddenly Delmar dropped his pen and began to rub his left arm. He groaned loudly.
Hit him. That’s it. That’s what Milo could do. He would hit him in the head and make it look like he killed himself falling into the stone fireplace.
Feeling much more in control now that he had formulated a plan of action, Milo stepped forward, but then he realized he didn’t have anything to whack the man with. He should have thought of that, he chided himself as he frantically looked around for a weapon to use. He backed up slowly and once again pressed against the wall out of Delmar’s line of vision.
No heavy candlestick or bookend … nothing. There wasn’t even a poker from the fireplace he could use.
In a panic now, he edged his way back to the foyer. Maybe he could fetch a heavy utensil from the kitchen. In his haste to retreat, he tripped over his own feet and fell sideways to the floor. Unfortunately, he made a little noise. He quickly scrambled to his feet and whirled around to see if Delmar was going to scream or, worse, come after him with a gun.
He peeked into the library and couldn’t believe his good luck. Delmar didn’t seem to hear or notice him. Delmar’s behavior was odd, though. His right hand had gone to his chest, and he slumped toward the light. His complexion was rapidly turning the color of a day-old corpse as he struggled for breath.
