“Um… I’m sorry but we don’t have a day spa,” said Benji, followed by an overly cordial, “Please let me introduce myself. My name’s Benji, and this is my partner Bastian. Welcome to our BnB.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” she said, ignoring his hand and pulling her phone from her pocket and trying to check her messages. “It’d be even more of a pleasure if I could get a fucking signal anywhere in this town. Please tell me you have Wi-Fi.”
“Of course,” said Bastian. “All of our rooms come with Wi-Fi, as well as air-conditioning, a minibar, coffee and tea facilities, not to mention—”
“Enough said. You had me at minibar. Just promise me you have Grey Goose.”
Benji glanced sideways at Bastian and said uncertainly, “Actually, I don’t think goose hunting season starts till September.”
“Oh my God,” said Astrid, blowing out the last puff of her cigarette. “I don’t need a rifle, I need a drink. Someone get me a bloody drink!”
* * *
Astrid unpacked her suitcase like a gust of wind plucking clothes off a clothesline and hurling them in all directions. Some landed haphazardly on the dresser, some flopped at the foot of the antique closet, others landed on the bed until she found what she was looking for.
“I always bring my own,” she said, holding up a bottle of vodka. “In case of emergency, smash glass.”
“Please don’t break the bottle,” I said, taking it from her and opening the lid. “There are less dramatic ways to get a drink around here.”
“Chin chin, darling. Just please don’t tell me I have to drink it out of a teacup.”
“Relax. Benji and Bastian provide tumblers for their guests. They’re not neanderthals, you know.” I poured us each a drink, then turned to see her lighting another cigarette. “Astrid, what are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m lighting a ciggie.”
“You can’t smoke in here.”
“Oh please, darling. Nobody’s ever going to know. Do you see a smoke detector anywhere? No, that’s because this place is older than Mick Jagger’s dance moves, and that’s saying something. At least if I die in a fire, I know I’ll only have myself to blame.” She reached into her bag and pulled out one last item… an envelope. “Speaking of threats to one’s life…”
She handed it to me.
I opened it, and there pasted onto a piece of paper—each letter a different size, a different font, from a different magazine or newspaper—was the message Astrid had read to me over the phone.
Sing one more note and die. Release one more record and die. Leave LA. or die.
I sat on the bed and stared at the words, unable to take my eyes off them until Astrid sat beside me, wrapping one arm around my shoulders.
“You know we can beat this bastard, don’t you? You know we can beat him at his own game.”
I looked at her. “We can? How?”
“Rats like this, they need to be flushed out. So… we flush him out.”
“How?”
“We hold a concert. We lure him to us. And we catch him at his own game.”
“What do you mean, we lure him to us? How?”
“By using you as the bait.”
“Bait?” I freaked out. “But I don’t wanna be bait!”
“Dean, darling, listen to me. I’ll hire an army of security personnel to make sure you’re safe. I will do everything in my power to protect you. But until we try to flush this fucker out, this twisted game of his is never going to end. You need to trust me on this.”
I huffed for air.
My head was spinning.
