In The Santa Monica Mountains, seated on old furniture in the living room of the little redwood house off Kanan Dume Road, the five of them took stock of their wounds.
They catalogued a collection of superficial, scrapes and cuts. The five agreed that when the bomb in the space heater went off, the worst of it somehow bypassed their table. It was as if the concussive force was directional, channeled in another direction to soar across the patio of the Hotel Bel-Air.
The way they remembered it, the blast gushed out in a narrow groove away from their corner. It seemed to pull all the air away for a moment before a different wave of air swept in.
They spoke of shattered glass, the silverware and china that flew through the air.
And then, safe in a little house in the Santa Monica Mountains they belatedly introduced themselves.
Caroline, the professional car thief.
Cecile, the former investment banker on the run from a third string cartel.
The other three were each recently retired.
Dorothy, a geologist. Her brother Nick, a network security analyst. Sarah, a forensic accountant.
Introductions flowed without any awkwardness. The five understood they were bound together by the explosion.
Caroline told them she’d drive up to the Target in Agoura Hills, load up on food, cocktails, bandages and a new car. Nick said he’d go with her.
There wasn’t a TV in the house. Later on Cecile watched the local five o clock news on her iPad.
All were all curious about how the explosion on the patio at the Hotel Bel-Air fit into the day’s news cycle.
Two people were killed, seventeen wounded and five suspects were being sought.
Then they saw themselves on the screen, as depicted by police sketch artists.
Four of the five renderings weren’t far off.
