Hopefully he had some grit. “Come on, Ralph Lauren. We’ll talk in the car.”
They were merging with traffic on I-5 headed south when lightning split a dark, menacing sky overhead. Rain pounded the roof, windshield wipers slapping back and forth. The storm she’d seen approaching this morning had finally hit with a vengeance. It was nearly dark as night, and traffic slowed as hail and wind assaulted the freeway.
She raised her voice over the storm. “Just got a hot tip that Mark Sorenson, Niki’s son, checked into Eden Retreat. I thought if you went in for a massage, I could wander around, maybe get a chance to talk with Mark. That would give me a legitimate reason for being on the property.”
“C’est la vie. I’ll suffer for the cause.”
She smirked. “You’re sacrifice is duly noted.”
A blinding burst of light struck so near the car that Whit thought they might have been hit.
George grabbed the dash and braced himself as Whit hit the brakes.
In a panic, he asked, “Do you think maybe we should pull off and take shelter?”
“Take shelter where? The next exit is six miles up the road, and now all these cars are driving like grannies.”
“Excellent point.” He leaned forward, anxious gaze focused on the tumultuous black sky. “But I’m relatively certain that last bolt nearly obliterated our lives.”
“Believe me, if I had my choice, I wouldn’t be out here. Freak storm. I saw it coming in this morning from the south.”
“Maybe it’s an omen.”
Ignoring that, Whit focused on driving as hail the size of quarters pummeled the car and thunder reverberated from the ground. The road was a mirage of red taillights and gushing water.
“Care for a mint?” George asked.
She threw him a caustic glare. “I’m trying to drive.”
“I thought it might take our minds off of our imminent death.” He paused, popping one into his mouth, before continuing. “They’re from an ancient abbey in Flavigny, Burgundy. They’ve used the same recipe since 1591.”
George held the tin in front of her. The lid had a picture of a shepherd and a young girl, Les Anis de Flavigny.
“Sure. Why not?” The mint, a small white candy, round and smooth, had a brilliant flavor. It might be her last meal. She said, “Thanks. How did you find these?”
“I discovered the delectable little candies when I was on a four-week internship in France. They come in other flavors as well. Now I order them on the internet.”
French candies, French slang. Whit asked, “Parlez-vous français?”
“Oui. Four years at Pepperdine and four in high school. Et toi?”
“A couple of years in college. Not well, but it got me around most of Europe.”
“You were a war correspondent, right?”
“In the beginning and intermittently since then. Among other things.” She braked as another semi flew by, dumping water across her windshield. “Bastard! Those things are a menace on the road!” She white-knuckled the steering wheel and prayed because she literally could not see two feet ahead.
George angled toward her in the seat. “What was it like? Covering war zones? Daunting, I presume?”
Daunting … really. What planet is this guy from?
“Why? Are you interested in becoming a war correspondent?”
“I’ve considered it.” He pulled a nail file from his pocket and groomed while he spoke. “Seriously. I read the book Embedded.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So why did you do it?” he asked.
“Cover wars?”
“Yes.”
“Because I was drawn to it. Like a moth to a flame. Especially after nine/eleven. I was young and outraged and in college at the time. So, I took a semester off and at my own expense, tagged along with a reporter from the L.A. Times who was covering the Iraq war. I met my husband in Baghdad. Ironic, really, because it’s the remnants of that war that killed him.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thanks. Let’s stick with your question.” Better to focus on that. “After traveling around with the Times reporter for three months, I was hooked on the adrenaline, the firsthand experiences. Like I had a front-row seat to history. Really, if you think about it, journalists are the first historians. And since we’re writing about current events, our stories have the power to change the future.”
“That’s interesting. I’d never really contemplated journalism in that way, as historians.”
“Sure. We also have an opportunity to expose injustice and provide a voice for victims of abuse or corruption. Especially for war victims, many of whom are women and children. Everyone can post stories now with cell phones, but it’s still difficult to get any serious attention unless legitimate media backs a story.”
She saw the exit sign and flicked on the blinker, steering for the off ramp.
“But what was it like? In the action?”
At the stop sign, she turned left and followed Dead Indian Road, twisting through foothills spotted with manzanita trees and shrub brush.
Images of war zones played out in her mind, most of them with John. She said, “It’s … dangerous.” During her career she’d personally known four journalists besides John who’d lost their lives. They were all dedicated reporters who believed in the cause.
“Care to expand on that?”
She thought about it for a moment. Remembering. Finally she said, “Reporters and photographers plant themselves in dangerous situations with a false sense of security. Like our press pass is a get-out-of-jail-free card. All we have to do is wave it and the horrors of war will pass us by. As if we’re invisible ghosts, we wander through battlefields, and sniper zones, and land mines, taking notes and snapping pictures. All the blood splatters and broken bodies become part of the landscape. It’s surreal.”
“But you’re justified. It’s a noble cause.”
“I believe in it, yes. But …” She shook her head sadly. “But that’s naïve, George. It doesn’t work that way. There’s no protection in being noble. We’re shot. We bleed. We’re raped. We die. The press pass only gets you into the nightmare. After that … there’s no guarantee you’ll ever get out.”
He studied her face, dark eyes searching. “Do you regret it?”
She thought of John and their adventurous lives together. The stories they’d covered, certain that it made a difference to someone somewhere. They’d lived more in their eighteen years of marriage than some couples did in fifty. Maybe that terrible day in Korangal Valley was the price they’d had to pay.
“No,” she said, emphatically. “We loved being war correspondents. But after our children were born, I spent most of my time in the States, except for special assignments. John often traveled overseas on freelance jobs. We were happy with the arrangement. It was a good life for us. What happened to my husband and I while we were in Afghanistan is no different than what might happen to a firefighter or a cop. They’re exciting jobs with high rewards that come with a high price. The common denominator is that, while we know the risks, we never think it will happen to us. Does that make sense?”
“Insanely, yes.”
Whit’s phone rang, automatically routed through her car speakers. She pushed a button on the steering wheel. “Whit McKenna.”
“This is Gale Delano. I have some important news. I did as you asked and called my friend, Dr. Weldon, the medical examiner. Can you stop by? I think you’ll want to hear this.”
“I’m following up a lead right now. Would five o’clock be okay?”
“That’s fine. I’ll text you the address.”
“Thanks.” Whit hung up, hoping for the best.
George asked, “Isn’t that the fire victim’s wife?”
“Yes. I found out this morning that she’s good friends with the medical examiner. They worked together on the Shakespeare Festival Board for years. I texted her and asked her to call him. Just see if she could get an off–the-record comment. If my hun
ch is correct, her husband’s death may be connected in some way to Niki Francis.”
On her right, they approached the sign for Eden Retreat. It promised “a renewing of mind, body and spirit.” She could certainly use some of that. No doubt it cost a pretty penny. She made a right turn onto a narrow road that curved and dipped into a valley of rolling hills, with small thatched huts surrounded by a profusion of colorful flower beds. Walking paths crisscrossed on well-groomed lawns and wound their way to a huge central garden, and on a clear day would provide an unobstructed view of the valley below.
Two main buildings sprawled out beneath tall pines at the base of the hills. Serenity Hall was a two-story structure with dark wooden balconies and a long covered porch decorated with rattan tables and chairs spaced along its polished boards. Whit parked in the guest parking and turned off the engine.
“Okay, George. It’s your birthday and Auntie Whit is buying you a massage.”
“My first undercover assignment. Fantastique!”
They made a mad dash inside, wiping rain from their faces.
Gauzy white curtains draped either side of a picture window behind a large granite reception desk. Tinkling Tibetan music filled the gracious hall from speakers hidden above in the open-beamed ceiling. Whit thought the music begged for a mat and yoga pose. She scanned the massive reception room for her prey. But they were alone. Where was everyone?
A brass gong the size of a dinner plate, suspended in a wooden frame, sat on one corner of the desk. The sign beneath it read: Ring me for service.
“Excellent.” George grabbed the mallet and hit the gong, making Whit flinch.
Taking a deep breath, she picked up a brochure from a gold rack on the desk. “Looks like it’s either ‘A Touch of Paradise Full Body Massage’ or ‘Must Be Heaven Deep Tissue Massage.’ They both last an hour and are … a hundred and sixty dollars each!”
“May I help you?” A slender woman approached, wearing a white-and-gold robelike dress. Her straight, black hair flowed behind her, almost to her hips.
Whit wrapped her arm around George. “It’s my nephew’s birthday, and I’ve promised him a massage.”
“Do you have an appointment?” The woman smiled pleasantly, though she cast a skeptical glance their way.
“No. Do we need one?”
“Usually, yes.” She sat in front of a computer at the marble desk; her long red nails, more like talons, pecked on the keys. “Let me see if we have a massage therapist available.”
Just then, a fine-boned man with dark features and curly dark hair, worn long over his ears and brushing his shoulders, emerged from the hall. He walked with a fluid stroll and approached the desk. He wore a pale-blue Tommy Bahama shirt and white cotton dress pants with leather sandals. He smiled, revealing straight white teeth. “Oh, what luck to come out of my office just when a pretty woman needs assistance. I see my beautiful wife, Charlene, is helping you. I’m Dr. Leon Heinemann, owner of Eden Retreat. Welcome!”
First impression: sleek, charming, a tad pompous.
Whit shook hands and introduced herself, wishing she could have avoided meeting the owner. Harder to fly under the radar. Just her luck. At least he seemed pleasant. A practiced charm to schmooze the wealthy? Little did he know he was barking up the wrong tree. She’d be lucky if the bank covered George’s massage after all the back-to-school clothes and supplies she’d bought for her daughters this week.
Dr. Heinemann looked about twice the age of his “beautiful wife.” Could this be wife number three or four? He cocked his head to the side, studying Whit. “I feel like I know you from somewhere. Have you been here before?”
“No.” Uh-oh. She’d been on too many news stations today. “People say that all the time. I just have one of those faces, I suppose.”
His dark gaze slowly perused her features, taking his time. “I can’t say that you do. Actually, you have a very striking face, and that red hair is … memorable. You’re beautiful.” Was it her imagination, or did his voice thicken in a lusty sort of way? Creepy. “I’m sure I’ve met you somewhere before. I’m usually quite good with faces. Give me just a moment and I’ll figure it out.”
Whit glanced sidelong at Charlene, who didn’t seem to mind her husband’s mild flirtation. She smiled pleasantly and said, “It looks like Aleena had a last-minute cancellation. She’ll be free in about twenty minutes, if you’re willing to wait?”
“Perfect. Did you decide which massage you want, George?”
He lifted his gaze from the brochure. “The Touch of Paradise sounds fabulous!”
Dr. Heinemann smiled approvingly. “You’ll love Aleena. She’s from Bermuda and applies neuromuscular therapy along with Swedish massage techniques. We have traveled far and wide for only the very best products and services—and people, of course. Hippocrates, as you know, was the father of medicine, and prescribed a daily massage for the maintenance of good health.”
“Fascinating,” Whit said, as she was paying for the massage, praying that her debit card wouldn’t be denied. She hadn’t bothered to check her balance in weeks. It wouldn’t matter in the long run when she turned it in to the Chronicle as an expense, but for now she was milking a turnip. “Lucky break for us you had an opening.”
Charlene nodded. “Although we try to be accommodating, we’re often booked weeks in advance.” She handed Whit her debit card. “While you wait, can I offer you some iced tea or champagne?”
George jumped on it. “Champagne would be splendid. Thank you.”
Whit threw him a discouraging look.
The astute Dr. Heinemann graciously offered to comp the drinks. “Enjoy the refreshments on the house. And feel free to wait here until the storm passes.” His gaze rested on Whit. “And perhaps you’ll come back another time and take advantage of our facilities.”
Said the spider to the fly. Something about him creeped her intuition.
“When you have a moment, dear,” Dr. Heinemann addressed his wife. “We have a special guest who needs our attention.”
Charlene glanced toward the hall where Dr. Heinemann had emerged. They exchanged a look, and she gave a slight nod. “Certainly.”
Noticing Whit’s avid attention, the lovely Charlene explained, “My husband is a psychiatrist, and as you can imagine, he sometimes has patients who require privacy, so they come and go through a private entrance in the back.”
“Yes. Of course.”
Dr. Heinemann excused himself. “A pleasure meeting you. Enjoy your visit.”
“Please.” Charlene came around the counter and waved them forward. “Follow me. We have a lovely atrium sushi bar.”
They followed Charlene to a set of elaborately etched double doors with swirling fish in a gold finish. Whit turned and glanced back over her shoulder. Heinemann had not retreated to his office; instead he stood behind the reception desk staring at her, the boyish charm gone, his gaze narrowed as if he’d somehow seen through their ruse and pondered throwing them out. She quickly stepped through the door.
Special lighting overhead illuminated the grand room in a sea of shimmering light. Red hibiscus and red ginger bloomed in various planters, and tinkling waterfalls cascaded from the back of the room to a small stream under a bamboo bridge. Every wall was clear glass.
No wonder the rich hung out here.
Charlene led them to a table overlooking the hills and a panoramic view of the storm. Here the music was the same soothing Tibetan sounds as in the lobby, but was nearly drowned out by the driving rain and thunder. The padded chairs were pale lime green to complement the garden effect.
“Thank you.” Whit sat and scanned the grounds. Certainly no one was out in the storm. This might have been a bad idea. She could always resort to asking for Mark’s bungalow. Fat chance they’d give it to her, but they might ring her through. Short of going door-to-door, she was probably screwed.
“I’ll return when we’re ready for you, George.” Charlene signaled the waiter as she walked over the bridge, h
er long black hair swaying like a pendulum.
George sat with a satisfied grin. All he needed was a silk paisley smoking jacket to perfectly fit the ambience. Good thing she’d worn her pearls and navy dress; at least they looked the part.
A pale-yellow glass of sparkling champagne arrived for each of them. Her glass was adorned with a bright-pink hibiscus flower.
Whit frowned as George sipped his drink, pinkie raised. “Are you even old enough to drink?”
He feigned offense. “Madam, I’ll have you know I’m twenty-two, going on twenty-three.”
He did have the shadow of a beard and baby laugh lines around his eyes when he smiled with those orthodontically perfect teeth.
Whit dropped the flower on the table and sipped the champagne, wishing she could toss it back like a shot. Lovely little bubbles danced in her stressed-out stomach. She also wished like hell she had even three inches of story to fill tonight’s thirty-inch hole. Blank space on a page was conveniently called a “hole” in the newspaper business. It felt like a screw twisting a hole right through her stomach.
So far her follow-up story consisted of Niki’s fund raisers in Medford and personal history, which was okay for backstory, but certainly no lead. She could link it to other known contributions she’d made to charities around the world and create a “soft story” about her philanthropist philosophy on life. Getting the details of Niki’s last days alive had been more difficult than she’d thought. Annie, the housekeeper, had been advised by police not to speak to journalists. George had reported that the only road to Casa Blanca Ranch had been blocked off. Niki’s manager was simply refusing all calls.
In other words, bullshit. Stu would hang her out to dry. This was no fluff piece; this was one of the most notorious murders in history. Above the fold wasn’t even half of it. This story better mesmerize readers for the full front page. The little Medford Daily Chronicle was now competing with the world’s most powerful media. She had to outperform them in order to hold the readers. Her stringers were busy gathering details of Niki’s day-to-day life since moving to Medford and collecting dates and names for further investigation.
A Desperate Place Page 14
