By the time I reached Sunset Boulevard, the van had fallen further behind. Maybe I was paranoid, or maybe not. Another sharp turn and I whipped down a narrow street, switched off the headlights, then parked. It was impossible to know if they were the same men from the marina, but I waited until the van drove by to be sure I’d ditched them.
Cursing under my breath, I slammed my fists against the steering wheel and allowed the rage to flood my veins.
FIVE
When Dad sold an island in the South Pacific for thirty million and cashed in a fifteen percent commission, I convinced him to buy a modern deco tri-level home above Sunset Plaza in a realty hotspot for young Hollywood – Bird Street. Actors. Producers. Athletes. Artists. Silicon Beach transplants. Anyone under thirty, with a seven-figure balance sheet, fought to live in these secluded hillside hideaways.
A bidding war ensued as Dad taught me the art of the deal. We closed against another bidder, a seasoned studio exec, for eight hundred grand over asking price. We relished our impulse buy. For Dad, the deal was about winning at all cost.
For me, it was an act of independence, or defiance, after surviving the streets of Baghdad and that night in Mosul. I didn’t want to look into the eyes of children in war ever again. I closed the chapter in that book and set my sights on the family business.
Two years later, life as a deal maker was twenty-four seven. A relentless pursuit to convince bidders to go higher, close faster, and conquer their competitor. It was a far cry from selling jars of jelly on farmhouse steps as a kid, but the rush of the deal was the same. As a single parent, Dad was my mentor. He watched as I became more and more like him. While I hadn’t officially done a deal on my own, he’d preached my praises to anyone who listened.
All the while, there was an underlying sense that not everything was as it seemed. I could’ve asked more questions, but the truth was I didn’t want to know. Black and white wasn’t reality — grey was real life.
His words haunted me.
When you’re attacked, fight to win. Never surrender to fear.
Dax and I spent most of the night methodically searching through the files on the thumb drive. Elena’s words rang in my ears. Tomorrow was a new battle in a war that seemed far from over. The NTSB report confirmed what she said. No explosive device. No mechanical problem. Nothing from the black box. The jet glided through the sky, and then a blip on the screen disappeared.
For hours we scrolled through dozens of photos from the crash site, a wreckage spread across a one-mile radius in the middle of the desert. Neither of us looked at the other, nor said a word. We were searching for clues to answer the unknown — images forever ingrained in my memory.
The ache in my chest only intensified when we reached the autopsy photos. I couldn’t bear to go through them, so Dax offered to do it himself.
By early morning, we moved on to the Feds’ investigation into Hardeman Auctions. To say it was extensive would’ve been an understatement. I dared not ask Elena how she secured such a vast amount of documents from the FBI. The deeper we dug into the investigation, the more my fears rose to the surface. A trail within the records and reports led down a yellow brick road to an inconvenient truth.
Exhausted, I left Dax to work through the rest of the files with plans to meet up later in the day. Shortly after 5:00 AM, I slipped into the house on Bird Street with my mind wired. I needed to sleep, but that was an elusive luxury these days. Instead I stared out the sliding glass door that framed the glowing lights of a city on the verge of sunrise.
The City of Angels was far from the cornfields of Indiana, or the deserts of the Middle East. I thought I’d escaped to a world where money flowed, power ruled, and only those who were willing to bend the rules survived. Without Dad to guide me, I feared what the Feds had found would bury me. Dad crossed the lines to protect his legacy, and there was a good chance what we saw in the Feds’ investigation was only the tip of the iceberg.
I stared at a display case in the corner of the living room and wrestled with what to do next. Encased in the protective glass was a clay mold of the Renaldt Royale Bessler. As a renowned automobile designer, Rossino Renaldt burst onto the world’s stage at the Vienna Trade Fair in 1901. His legacy was defined by flair and power in the grandest automobiles ever created, including the Royales that belonged to Rossino himself.
There was a time when the legend of the Royale Bessler was forgotten, until history scribed a new chapter. One discovery defined and catapulted Dad’s legacy into the Auction Hall of Fame when he sold the handcrafted auto for a world-record price in Vegas. It was his Everest summit, before oxygen leaked from the business on the treacherous descent downward.
Closing my eyes, I leaned back and listened to Dad’s signature baritone voice weave a tale which grew grander with time.
My search took me to a small town in France where a mystery remained unearthed since the Great Depression. It was within the gates of Rossino’s estate that a vision first shaped in a clay mold was transformed into seven of the most magnificent automobiles ever crafted – the Royales. Eight thousand pounds. Twenty-four feet in length. A “straight 10” engine that produced 400 horsepower. Cylinders that each discharged more than an entire engine of a Type 40 touring car of its day.
Extravagant. Opulent. Remarkable.
Chase, imagine four of seven sold to private collectors. One destroyed by fire. None were found that Rossino kept for himself. Exhilarating sculptures on wheels that once garnered the world’s stage, now lost.
As I drove through Molsheim’s Nouveau Quartier I neared the end of my quest. I stopped at the wrought iron gates of Rossino’s estate and knew the odds were not in my favor. Entering the dilapidated home, I was surrounded by aged paintings and photos that captured Rossino’s grandest accomplishments. I noticed that each room I passed was empty. It seemed those society deemed untouchable had also paid a price during the war.
I paused at a mahogany door before entering a forgotten place, Rossino’s private study. The room was furnished with a vintage desk, dust-covered leather chairs facing a brick fireplace that was the centerpiece of the beautiful decor of an era long ago. I looked around the room and found a sledgehammer propped next to a gas lantern, exactly as I requested from the groundskeeper.
I tell you son, my eyes danced with excitement as I grabbed that sledgehammer and swung with a renewed resolve. Pieces of brick and stone scattered in a burst of destruction. Soon, I stood before a black hole amidst a pile of rubble. I lit the lantern and followed a glow that illuminated my destiny. You see, hidden behind the wall of Rossino’s private study was a garage built to protect two pieces of art the world believed had ceased to exist.
His voice faded as I blinked back to the present. Another glass of whiskey. I stared hard at the clay mold of the prized Renaldt Royale Bessler, a piece of art that connected the legacies of two men eras apart. Both suffered a tragic death. Rarely had I heard Dad speak about what was believed to be Rossino’s fabled crown jewel – the Rossino Otto.
I mumbled under my breath, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I texted and called.” Spinning around in the chair, I was wide eyed as Laney stood in an entryway wearing nothing more than my t-shirt. “Chase, I’ve been worried. Where’ve you been?”
“We got in the weeds on a deal.”
“With the investigation, don’t you think you’ll get caught?”
“Look, they’ve frozen the company’s assets, but that doesn’t mean they’re going to shut me down. Right now, they’re looking in another direction.”
“You’re risking everything – for what?”
“For us.” As soon as the words left my lips, I saw the hurt in her eyes. “Laney, I’m bending the rules that’s all.”
“I love you, Chase. But whatever you’re doing isn’t about us.”
“Don’t you see? I’m protecting you.”
“You’ve left me in the dark without telling me what’s really going on.”
&nb
sp; “Breakfast?”
“Don’t change the subject.” Laney crossed her arms. “We’re either in this together, or I’ll pack my bags and leave.”
I groaned as I pulled myself up. My muscles ached as much as my spirit. Grabbing Laney, I ran my hands down her spine, then picked her up and carried her to the kitchen counter. I kissed her gently, caressed her smooth skin, and felt her body grow weak.
She pushed back slightly. “I’m serious, Chase.”
Nodding, I pressed my body closer.
SIX
The Ivy on Robertson was guarded by a white picket fence surrounding an outdoor patio hidden beneath a dozen umbrellas. Valets hustled to accommodate the A-listers who streamed up to the curb in their Ferraris, Mercedes, Bentleys, and Teslas. Across the street, photogs hid behind telephoto lenses capturing high-valued celebs for the tabloids.
We arrived without fanfare and were ushered to our regular corner table. Minutes passed as we sipped vanilla lattes and inhaled a moment of peace. As I gazed deep into Laney’s blue eyes I thought of how freely she expressed her love, including earlier that morning as we were wrapped beneath a blanket watching the sunrise over Hollywood. I hoped she’d see my loyalty as love, even though I’d never found the courage to say those words aloud.
From behind, a hand squeezed my shoulder. I turned and recognized Ron Levowitz, the network exec we outbid for Bird Street. He offered a cheery hello, and I offered a firm handshake. Across the table, Laney remained invisible.
“Not a day goes by that I don’t think about that bloody house,” Levowitz griped. “You stole it right out from under me.”
“If I ever sell the place, you’ll be the first to know.”
“In all seriousness, I heard about your father. My condolences.”
“I appreciate the kind words. Dad saw you as a worthy opponent.”
Levowitz turned his wandering eyes toward Laney for a few awkward seconds. “Mind if I steal him for a moment?”
“As long as you bring him back.” Laney turned her attention back to her latte.
“Thanks a lot.” I pushed the chair back and followed him across the patio, unsure of what he wanted.
Levowitz asked, “Five percent, deal?”
Before I agreed, Marcus Nicholson, AKA Silicon Swindler, greeted us. “I can’t seem to shake you this week. You’re like a bad nightmare.”
Levowitz raised his eyebrows. “I wasn’t aware you knew each other.”
“Recently introduced,” I replied.
“Yeah, it seems Chase has given me a nickname around town: Silicon Swindler.”
“Sounds… appropriate.” Levowitz chuckled and motioned for me to take a seat. “We’ll make this quick. Marcus is interested in purchasing one of the studio’s assets.”
“And Lev wants me to pay retail.”
“What’s the asset?” I asked.
“An island in the South Pacific. We filmed three seasons of Survivalist there, but now we’re looking at other locations.”
Nicholson tapped the table. “The ratings are in the crapper.”
Ignoring his comment, I asked, “How much?”
“Fifteen million,” Levowitz answered. “Marcus offered eight.”
They wanted to make a deal, or else why meet at The Ivy on a Tuesday. From the tension, it was clear Nicholson was still licking his wounds from the night before. It was better not to make any more enemies, even the ones whose arrogance irritated my last nerve.
“You should counter,” I suggested.
“I agree.” Levowitz eyed Nicholson closely. “Thirteen five. No less.”
“We’re not talking Turks and Caicos,” Nicholson argued. “Besides, you’re canceling the show at the end of the season, so I know you need to dump it.”
“He’s got a point.” I glanced at Laney from across the patio. She returned a warm smile as she waited patiently. Time to move this along. “Mr. Levowitz, it’ll be a write-off for the studio.”
“What’s the price then?” Levowitz asked.
“Lucky thirteen,” I answered. “No contingencies.”
Levowitz protested. “Down another five hundred grand?”
“You mean up another five mil.” Nicholson jabbed his finger in the air. “That’s bull…”
“Look, I’m sure you two will work it out.” I stood and waited for one of them to flinch. “Thirteen is the number.”
“All cash. Ten-day close.” Levowitz reached out his hand. “And, Marcus signs a confidentiality agreement.”
Nicholson shook hands with a sly grin. “Let’s get it done.”
I excused myself with Levowitz not far behind, then handed him my cell opened to an app to transfer the commission.
He grinned. “You know we only paid—”
“Three point five,” I interrupted. “It was in Variety a few years back.”
“I guess Silicon Swindler spends all his time coding.”
I slipped my cell back in my pocket. “I’d appreciate it if…”
“Discretion is what’s kept me in the game. Chase, I met your father once at a premiere. He was the life of the party and seemed to be a good man. No hard feelings about Bird Street. If I can ever return the favor, you know where to find me.”
With that, I left Levowitz standing in the center of the patio, dropped a hundred on the table, and headed for the valet with Laney by my side. Six hundred and fifty grand over breakfast. Unbelievable. I tipped the valet and climbed behind the wheel. From the passenger seat, Laney eyed me curiously for a few blocks. I tried to ignore her for as long as possible.
“I meant what I said this morning.”
“Laney, it’s better you don’t know.”
“We can’t keep going in circles.” She wiped a tear from her cheek. “I’m right here. Why won’t you trust me?”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Where were you and Dax last night?” Silence hung in the air until she reached over and grabbed my arm. “I know the risks. I can take care of myself.”
If she was the one, why was it so difficult to tell her the truth? Maybe I was ashamed. Maybe I was afraid she’d stop loving me. There was only one way to know for sure.
“We were tipped off that the Feds were going to raid our offices,” I admitted. “We didn’t know the exact time, but we knew it was coming. The person who told us is family, so we returned the favor last night. If I tell you any more, you won’t have deniability if you’re subpoenaed.” I turned right off Sunset, made a quick left into an alley, and parked at The Cave. Staring at the rundown building left me wondering if I made the right decision. “Before Dad boarded the flight, he called with instructions to implement a contingency plan – one we hoped we’d never use.”
“What contingency plan?”
I turned toward Laney, knowing there was no going back. “To disappear.”
SEVEN
THE CAVE
A stench emanated from the stained carpet that lined a graffiti covered hallway. I peered through a large glass window inside what was once a tracking room for Hollywood’s top artists from the nineties, back when records were made in studios instead of someone’s living room. On the other side of the glass, two monitors reflected Dax’s glowing face as he worked with his back to us.
We entered the space and from a few feet away could hear the music buzz from his earbuds. In a split second, he spun around with a forty-five pointed at my chest.
“You scared the hell outta me!” Dax set the gun on the table and removed his earbuds. His gaze darted over my shoulder to Laney. “Bad idea, bro.”
“What’s done is done.” Walking over to a large whiteboard covered with a scribbled list of cars, I picked up a marker and crossed off the 1937 Mercedes-Benz 540 K Special Roadster that was now owned by Prince Azim.
Dax jumped up to pace. “What’ve you told her?”
“Not much,” Laney answered. “Dax, I’m here to help.”
“Show her what we found last night.” I tapped the monitors.
Dax pulled up a series of files on screen. “Here’s all of it so far.”
“What is all this?” Laney asked.
“NTSB officially ruled the crash as inconclusive.” I pointed to a series of reports. “In all of this there’s no solid explanation. No explosion. No mechanical failure. No pilot error. No black box evidence. Nothing that tells us what caused the crash.”
Laney crossed her arms. “What’re you saying, Chase?”
“He’s saying,” Dax replied, drawing out the words, “this ain’t no accident.”
“The NTSB closed the investigation a week after the crash,” I explained. “No way is that enough time to search the wreckage and determine the cause. It takes months before they’d release any details, and only after going over every inch of the wreckage. But this report concluded their investigation with nothing more.”
Laney tilted her head. “Chase, do you hear what you’re saying?”
“Don’t you see? Someone is covering up the truth.” Pacing back and forth, a renewed surge of energy flowed through my veins. Revenge against whoever was behind the crash was possible. That’s all I needed to know. “Dax, show her what else we found.”
“Feds have bank statements on Hardeman Auctions going back five years.” He clicked the mouse as more documents and FBI reports filled the screen. “Including copies of transfers from the business accounts to an offshore bank in the Caymans.”
Laney shot me a look. “Did you know about this?”
I shook my head. “I don’t even know how to access them.”
“The Feds have probably already reviewed the company’s tax returns.” Dax kept his gaze on the monitors, avoiding the icy glare Laney pointed in my direction. “If that’s the case, then they know cash was kept off the books.”
“What do you mean off?” Her gaze darted between Dax and me.
I held up my hands in surrender. “Now is the time to walk away if you’re thinking twice.”
“I’m trying to take all of this in.” She leaned against the table. “Keep going.”
The Auctioneer Page 3
