Mission Canyon Page 3

  ‘‘Tell him it’s about Franklin Brand.’’

  His suavity flickered. He gazed past me down the steps, where Jesse was maneuvering out of the car.

  ‘‘Why don’t you tell me about it? I’m Kenny Rudenski. ’’

  Swing and a miss, strike three. First Zorro, then the Brand look-alike, now this.

  ‘‘Sure,’’ I said, ‘‘when you get your father.’’

  His gaze ran over me. ‘‘You’re a pushy thing. Lucky for you, I like that.’’

  He went inside and I jogged back down the stairs. Jesse was locking the car.

  He said, ‘‘Do you know who that was?’’

  ‘‘I’m sorry. I blew it.’’

  Kenny Rudenski was the Mako executive who had bleated loudest about Brand’s innocence after the accident. I remembered a newspaper quote in which he speculated that Jesse and Isaac had been drinking before the crash. This was going to be unpleasant.

  ‘‘Forget it,’’ Jesse said. ‘‘George will be stand-up.’’ He nodded toward the museum. ‘‘And we’ve got flak at twelve o’clock.’’

  George Rudenski was walking down the steps, as straight as a flagpole. Behind him came Kenny, scurrying to catch up, and at Kenny’s side was a woman in her late thirties. With her crimson suit and shocking fall of silver hair, she looked like a banked fire that could flare up at any moment. She was Harley Dawson, Mako’s attorney.

  I said, ‘‘I’m on it.’’

  I aimed myself toward George, ignoring the others. ‘‘Sorry to pull you away.’’

  He nodded and shook Jesse’s hand. ‘‘What’s this about Brand?’’

  I said, ‘‘I just chased him down the street.’’

  He stilled. ‘‘You’re sure it was him?’’

  ‘‘Dead certain,’’ Jesse said.

  ‘‘Son of a bitch.’’

  Harley Dawson strode up. ‘‘I knew it, Evan. You came here to serve a summons, didn’t you?’’ She nodded at Jesse. ‘‘How’s it going, Blackburn? You enjoying work with the Militant Wing over at Sanchez Marks?’’

  Jesse raised a fist in salute. ‘‘Power to the people, Harley. You still like greasing the wheels of power?’’

  ‘‘Yeah, it’s caviar for the soul.’’ She pointed at George. ‘‘Anything to do with Franklin Brand is a legal issue. Let me take this.’’

  George said, ‘‘He’s back.’’

  Harley blinked. She had freckles and elfin eyes, delicate features overcome by the hard stare and tense mouth. Which now hung open.

  I said, ‘‘Here’s the legal issue, Harley. People at Mako have to hear that if Brand shows up, or phones, or flicks spitwads through the window, they need to call the police. Immediately.’’

  Jesse said, ‘‘That means within thirty seconds.’’

  ‘‘Make it ten,’’ I said. ‘‘Wait too long, you’ll tick off the cops, and they’ll start using terms like ‘harboring a fugitive’—’’

  Jesse said, ‘‘Obstruction of justice, conspiracy—’’

  Kenny shook his head. ‘‘Unbelievable. Blackburn’s still trying to blame Mako for his life.’’

  George gave him a scolding look. ‘‘Kenny, this isn’t the place.’’

  ‘‘No, Dad. Frank’s back, and the first thing this guy does is complain to you. Must be time for a fresh handout.’’

  Jesse said, ‘‘Kenny.’’

  Kenny stared at the wheelchair. ‘‘Hey, life sucks; how about cutting a check?’’

  ‘‘How about this,’’ Jesse said. ‘‘How about I hand you your ass. On a serving platter, with a sprig of parsley stuck between the cheeks.’’

  George’s face mottled. ‘‘Gentlemen, enough.’’

  Kenny raised his eyes and glared at Jesse. ‘‘I’d like to see you try, and—’’

  ‘‘Enough. Our guests are waiting. Please go and entertain them.’’

  George turned to Jesse. ‘‘This is a matter for the authorities, and will be handled accordingly. You have my word.’’ Eyeing Harley, he said, ‘‘I’ll speak to you privately.’’

  He walked away.

  Kenny stared at Jesse. His jaw muscles were bulging. He was rubbing his fingers against his palms as though they were greasy. Harley nudged him, trying to get him moving.

  He looked at me, wiping his palms on his jeans. The McQueen cool returned.

  ‘‘It’s okay. I respect that you’re standing up for the guy.’’

  He touched my elbow, rubbing it with his thumb. Harley nudged him again. Shaking her off, he left.

  Jesse watched him go. ‘‘And he’s in line to take over at Mako? Hope you like bankruptcy law, Harley.’’

  He rocked back, spun a one-eighty, and headed off. Harley pursed her lips.

  ‘‘Crap-o-rama.’’ She ran a hand through her icefall of hair. ‘‘This incestuous town. When a skeleton falls out of a closet, it hits someone you know. You can bet on it.’’

  ‘‘Mako’s getting a second chance here. Don’t let them screw it up,’’ I said.

  ‘‘Great. Professional advice from a gal dressed like Ginger in Gilligan’s Island.’’

  ‘‘Go talk to George. He’ll do the right thing, especially if you remind him to.’’

  ‘‘Tell you what. I’ll do my job, and you do yours.’’ She nodded in Jesse’s direction. ‘‘You need to rein that boy in.’’

  I must have looked incredulous. ‘‘Jesse is not the problem here.’’

  ‘‘He should watch his words. He could regret tussling with Kenny.’’

  All at once, I felt acutely angry. ‘‘Kenny needs worming. ’’

  ‘‘I know, he can be’’—uncertainty tugged at her mouth—‘‘intense. But he feels passionate about Mako, and he’s loyal to his friends.’’

  "Intense? No."

  ‘‘Okay, he shouldn’t have spoken the way he did. That was—’’

  ‘‘Revolting? Odious? Stop me when I hit the right adjective.’’

  She held up her hands. ‘‘I get your point.’’ She tilted her head back. ‘‘Let’s blow this gig. Want to? Get a beer, go dancing, play poker. I’m sick of being a bitch.’’

  I nearly laughed. We’d been friends for years, and her impulsiveness always amused me.

  ‘‘Kid, I never tire of watching you spin on that dime. But not tonight.’’

  She sighed. ‘‘No, I guess not.’’ She started walking backward toward the museum. ‘‘So, are the rumors true?’’

  ‘‘Lies. A vast conspiracy of lies.’’

  ‘‘There’s a story going around you’re getting married.’’

  ‘‘I heard that too,’’ I said.

  Her mouth curled up. ‘‘He’s a lucky guy.’’

  ‘‘Damn straight he is.’’

  She waved, and I walked away. Jesse was waiting by his car, watching traffic cruise by. He had a predatory look in his eyes.

  I touched the back of his neck. ‘‘Want to come home with me?’’

  He shook his head. ‘‘I have to tell Adam.’’

  His tone of voice told me he’d rather eat glass.

  I said, ‘‘Do you want backup?’’

  ‘‘Yeah. I’ll sing melody; you take the harmony. We’ll do the whole lousy song.’’ He unlocked the car. ‘‘The ‘Your Brother’s Dead and His Killer’s Back’ blues.’’

  ‘‘Three years and three weeks. Brand just missed the anniversary of the accident.’’

  Adam Sandoval leaned against a windowsill, staring out. He lived on the Mesa, a hillside neighborhood overlooking the ocean. Sunset flickered red on the water.

  ‘‘He isn’t here to lay a wreath. What brought him back?’’

  ‘‘Money,’’ I said.

  He was preternaturally still. His quiet, I knew, should not be mistaken for tranquillity.

  ‘‘He has money. It’s more than that,’’ he said.

  A breeze blew through the window, billowing his white linen shirt. He was barefoot, and his khakis hung loosely on him. The only item that did
n’t look careless was the crucifix. It hung directly over his heart, as though placed with an awareness of force and balance worthy of a physicist, which he was.

  ‘‘The arrogant bastard. Showing up at a public event as if nothing’s wrong, as if three years on some beach washed the stink off his guilt.’’

  He turned from the window. He had a rugged face. His eyes brimmed with melancholy light, a sorrow that faded but never disappeared, even when he smiled. He wasn’t smiling now.

  ‘‘This is sickening,’’ he said.

  Jesse said, ‘‘No. Trying to contact people from Mako, out in public—that will get him caught. This is excellent.’’

  ‘‘If you believe that, why do you look like you’ve been punched in the face?’’

  Jesse sighed.

  I said, ‘‘Because he’s been trash-talking with Kenny Rudenski.’’

  Adam looked surprised. ‘‘That’s going straight for the jugular.’’

  ‘‘Of course,’’ I said. ‘‘His business card reads, ‘One-eight -hundred-RIDE-THEIR-ASS.’ ’’

  Adam gave him a sardonic smile. ‘‘Did he look you in the eye?’’

  ‘‘He can’t,’’ Jesse said. ‘‘He has a congenital impediment. ’’

  Adam pushed off from the windowsill and shrugged across the room. The house was furnished with one sofa, two computers, and bookshelves cluttered with Ludlum, Tony Hillerman, Aquinas, and the collected lectures of Richard Feynman. The whole place smelled like chile verde. Adam was a postdoc at the university, and it showed.

  Jesse said, ‘‘Let Brand be arrogant. It doesn’t matter, because nobody in town’s going to get close enough to poke him with a stick. That’s why he was standing outside the museum like a beggar.’’

  ‘‘Or like a stalker,’’ Adam said. ‘‘He wants something, and he wants it bad.’’

  Standing by the bookshelf, he gazed at an eight-by-ten photo in a pewter frame. His face was wistful.

  It pictured him, Isaac, and Jesse—the unholy trinity, they called themselves. It was taken at the NCAA national swimming championships, plainly after a win, and in victory they looked glorious. Adam was almost goofy with delight. Isaac wore a puckish grin and was holding up his index finger for the camera: We’re number one.

  He was the wild man, so furious in the water that they called him the Washing Machine. He tattooed their winning time on his ankle afterward.

  And Jesse looked ecstatic. He had draped his arms across the Sandovals’ shoulders, pulling them to him. His hair was bleached gold from chlorine, his body rip with power from head to toe. It was the way he looked when I first met him, when his blue eyes and athletic grace knocked me flat on my butt, astonishing me with my own desire.

  He still had the lithe build that gave him such fierce beauty in the water. His shoulders could carry almost anything, and since the accident they’d been carrying the weight of concern for Adam. I heard it in the words he chose, the care in his voice. I knew why. He thought that between them, Adam had suffered the heavier blow.

  He said, ‘‘Whatever Brand is after, he’s taking risks, and that’s why he’s going to get nailed. He’ll fuck up.’’

  Adam looked at him. ‘‘Once more, with feeling.’’

  ‘‘He’ll blow it. Because that’s what fuckups do.’’

  Another caustic smile. ‘‘You’re such a cheerleader.’’

  The light muted and the ocean took on a silver sheen. Shadow brushed Adam’s face.

  I said, ‘‘What do you think Brand wants, if it isn’t money?’’

  ‘‘Revenge,’’ he said.

  I must have looked startled. ‘‘Against whom? Mako?’’

  ‘‘The woman. The anonymous caller who phoned the police and turned him in.’’

  ‘‘You think he was stalking her at the museum?’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’

  Jesse said, ‘‘You think she works for Mako.’’

  Adam nodded. ‘‘And I think people at Mako know who she is, because office affairs are never truly clandestine. But nobody has ever come forward. Nobody has the backbone.’’

  Jesse gave me a glance. We were thinking the same thing: Adam had been working this out for a long time. He lived with this constantly.

  Adam said, ‘‘If you want to get in Mako’s face, I’ll get in it with you. But be prepared for them to land on you like a hammer. George Rudenski may be a nice guy, but Kenny’s a schemer, and he’ll set the tone.’’

  ‘‘Screw Kenny, and screw Mako. They’re just the levers we use to get to Brand. Eyes on the prize, buddy.’’

  Adam nodded and stared out the window at the ocean. Jesse gave me a look: Time to go.

  He touched Adam on the elbow. ‘‘I’ll talk to you tomorrow. You okay?’’

  ‘‘Yeah.’’

  We started toward the door. Adam said, ‘‘One thing, jefe.’’

  Jesse glanced back over his shoulder.

  ‘‘You’re taking action against a killer. There’s going to be a reaction.’’

  ‘‘I remember my Isaac Newton, Dr. Sandoval. Equal and opposite.’’

  Adam said, ‘‘Be careful, man.’’

  In Hope Ranch, the landscaping lights were on at Cal and Mari Diamond’s estate. They illuminated the palms and the flower beds, where red camellias grew as big as fists. They spotlighted the arches and balconies of the house, Casa Maricela. And they cast shadows at the edges of the property, where the young woman walked outside the wrought-iron fence, dragging a metal baton along the railings. She waited for the noise to bring the dogs.

  Her name was Cherry Lopez. She was twenty-four, but with her wiry frame people took her for a teenager. She kept her hair cropped short and dyed it gothic black. A tattoo ran like a cable from her ankle up one leg, coiling around her thigh, across a hip, and over her ribs, eeling around her breast and up her neck. It ended behind her ear, with a viper’s head sinking its fangs in.

  The baton rang against the railings. ‘‘Here, doggies. Got a surprise for you.’’

  And now they came, two Dobermans racing across the lawn in the dusk, ears flat against their heads. Cherry reached the gate at the top of the drive. The dogs charged it, teeth bared, barking. The sound annoyed her. They were bigger than she expected, mean-looking things.

  She didn’t want to do this. This was aggro. She shouldn’t even be here, but their timing got thrown off at the museum because of the chick in the pink dress and the guy on wheels, variables they hadn’t factored in. Mouthy chick, but she wasn’t the big problem. The plan had bugs, face it. But she knew what would happen to her if she backed out now.

  ‘‘Here, Fido.’’

  She stuck the baton through the gate. One of the dogs lunged forward and grabbed it in its teeth. Cherry pressed the switch. The dog jerked and fell to the ground.

  The second dog kept barking and jumping at the gate. Man, the noise was provoking her nerves. Up at the house, a light came on. Cherry looked over her shoulder, down the driveway to where the Corvette was parked. Inside it glowed the red tip of a cigarette, or maybe a joint. Mickey was watching. She had to finish the game or pay the price.

  She jammed the baton through the railings again, hitting the second dog in the chest. It mewled and quivered and dropped to the ground.

  There, quiet. That was better.

  She examined the baton. It delivered three hundred thousand volts and cost only $64.99. Not bad. Bought off the Net, and, the sweetest part, with Cal Diamond’s own credit card number. Technology wins again.

  Reaching into her back pocket, she pulled out the envelope. Diamond would wet himself when he saw the photos. She dropped it through the railings and rang the buzzer by the gate. Giving the stunned dogs a last look, she walked down the driveway to the car.

  Climbing in, she smelled the weed. Mickey sat behind the wheel, still wearing the stupid Zorro hat. Zorro with long blond hair—right. He took a hit and held the smoke in his lungs.

  She said, ‘‘I did it.’’

&nbs
p; He blew out the smoke, turned, and hit her in the cheek with the flat of his hand.

  ‘‘You didn’t put the tape over the video camera in the gate.’’

  Oh, man. ‘‘I forgot. The dogs were barking, and—’’

  He hit her again. Her fingers curled around the shock baton, and loosened. Not now. It wouldn’t be worth the punishment.

  He started the Corvette. ‘‘But who gives a shit? It’s your head on the chopping block.’’

  Cherry looked at him. ‘‘Yours too.’’

  "Nah." He dropped it into first. ‘‘You’re on camera. I was never here."

  3

  Jesse dropped me at home, his face troubled. The mountains shouldered a starry sky. I went through the gate toward my house, a cottage at the end of a deep garden. My friends Nikki and Carl Vincent live in the Victorian house along the street. It’s a comfortable neighborhood near the Santa Barbara Mission, crowded with old houses, overgrown oleander, oak trees, the scent of star jasmine, and the shouts of kids at play. But I felt disheartened and restless.

  Through the Vincents’ kitchen window I saw Carl at the sink, washing baby food out of his pin-striped shirt. The kitchen lights pinged off his owlish glasses. On the back porch in the rocker, looking carved from mahogany, Nikki sat nursing Thea.

  She caught sight of my pink sequins. ‘‘Who have we here?’’

  ‘‘Condoleezza Rice.’’

  A deep laugh. ‘‘And I’m the prime minister of Sweden.’’

  I sat down on the porch steps. ‘‘Franklin Brand’s in town. Jesse’s ballistic.’’

  ‘‘Oh, my God.’’

  I told her about it, realizing as I talked that I felt cooked. When Thea finished nursing, I held out my hands.

  ‘‘Let me see this girl.’’

  Nikki handed her to me. Thea was nine months old and robust. She wrapped her pudgy thighs around me and patted my sequins. I smiled at her.

  Nikki said, ‘‘Heard from Luke?’’

  He had been gone since Christmas. I felt my stomach pinching, a familiar ache.

  ‘‘He’s good,’’ I said. ‘‘Playing baseball. Learning subtraction. ’’

  She watched me. ‘‘Evan, you are permitted to say that you miss him.’’