THE MAN WHO HUNTED HIMSELF
Page 24
‘And she was right,’ Richard added. ‘Just because I went along with the situation a year ago, didn’t mean I approved of it. But my hands were tied.’
‘Like Pontius Pilate’s, you mean.’
He bridled at the comparison. ‘It’s easy for you. Carl and Nick may be family but they’re totally fucking ruthless. Sticking my neck out over the Belinda situation would have gotten it chopped off.’
I didn’t take him seriously, let alone literally.
‘You go along with that?’ I asked Maura.
She nodded and took my hand in hers. ‘The same went for me, and you accepted that. Why can’t you accept that Richard daren’t rock the boat? They would probably have eliminated us both.’
I gave Maura’s hand a squeeze then let it go to stand up and pace and think.
‘It seemed to me,’ she went on, ‘that three of us would stand more of a chance of success than two.’
‘Safety in numbers? It doesn’t always add up. I usually work alone, which has its drawbacks, but the advantages outweigh them.’ I eyed Richard, looking for signs of a hard centre behind the easygoing front. Aware too, that he could be a plant. Not that I suspected Maura could be a part of it. If I was being conned, so was she.
‘You think I’m working for them, don’t you?’ he said.
When I didn’t respond, Maura said, ‘Do you, Drew?’
Even as she uttered my name, she realised her indiscretion. Her fingers flew to her lips, pressing them as if to push the words back inside, her eyes big and round and, it has to be said, even more beautiful.
‘I’m sorry, darling ...’
Richard grinned wryly, then reached across and patted Maura’s knee.
‘Don’t worry, Stepmommy dear. Drew – I assume that’s Andrew – probably isn’t his real name either.’
That the possibility had never occurred to her was at once apparent from her startled ‘Oh!’
‘It’s close enough,’ I said sourly. ‘Let’s stick to the topic under discussion, shall we? If I have to accept Richard as an ally, we need to move this along, figure out the next step.’ I looked at him. ‘You don’t happen to know or have any idea where Lindy is being held, I suppose.’
He shook his head. ‘Reliable knowledge, no. A hunch, possibly.’
‘Even a hunch is better than ignorance. It can be verified.’
He shuffled forward on the bed as if to bring us closer and reduce the chance of being overhead.
‘Some years ago, Carl bought a beach house in Malibu. I used it once, with a girlfriend, but haven’t been since. If he still has it, they could be using it for Lindy.’
‘You know about this place?’ I asked Maura, resuming my seat.
‘No. It’s the first I’ve heard of it.’
‘If they kept its existence from you, that might point to Lindy’s being held there. A big gamble for them though, if they knew Richard was anti the whole Lindy thing. From their point of view, if he switched sides, which he says he has done, the Malibu place would be compromised.’
‘Even so, it’s a starting point,’ Maura said.
‘So I’ll start there. Will you be staying on here, either or both of you?’
‘Just me, one night only,’ Maura replied. ‘Richard’s flying back tonight. He needs to stick to my regular routine, to avoid giving them any cause for suspicion. I’m due to meet Lindy again in about ten days, and if we’re going to try and get her back, that’ll be the time to do it, won’t it?’
‘If we have a workable plan by then, no reason to delay it. Delay means increased risk of a leak ...’ I shot a sidelong glance at Richard. He frowned back at me.
What I didn’t say was that if Lindy was at the Malibu house, I might be able to advance the timetable and even keep Maura out of it. To snatch the child from there would require her trust and co-operation though. A screaming, kicking, resisting seven year old would not be the best recipe for a smooth operation. At this stage, it was just one of several alternative scenarios.
‘What’s the story with Justine?’ I said, addressing both of them.
Richard answered.
‘Justine does as she’s told, right or wrong, legal or illegal. Carl’s the boss and, believe me, you don’t step out of line if you want to stay healthy. He never sullies his own hands, but there are half a dozen guys on the payroll who will do his bidding, no matter how dirty the job.’
‘I haven’t seen that side of him,’ Maura confessed, ‘but I know he has no scruples.’
‘Who else is at the house besides Justine?’
‘Their daughter, Angelina, I suppose,’ Richard said. ‘Several goons. I’m just guessing.’
I fumbled for my note book and a pen.
‘Give me the location of the Malibu place.’
‘110 Borodino Drive, off Latigo Canyon Road.’
My knowledge of Malibu Beach was sketchy, but according to Richard the house was some distance from the highway, up in the foothills where the views down the valley towards the Pacific are reputedly spectacular.
‘Let’s take a break,’ I proposed. ‘If you’ll excuse us, Richard, I’d like a few words with Maura alone.’
‘Sure thing.’ Richard bounced off the bed and headed for the door, a true diplomat. ‘Catch you later for dinner.’ While the door was still closing behind him, Maura and I were up and in each other’s arms. The old urge reared, and I almost succumbed. As if she saw it coming and thought to make it easy for me, she said, ‘Why don’t we take a walk and look at the ocean.’
So we took a walk and looked at the ocean. Quite a few others were doing the same. It was a calm, soothing ocean, in keeping with its name, and the late afternoon sun laid a glaze over its surface.
‘Smell the ozone, ‘Maura said, snuggling up to me, as we leaned against the footpath rail.
‘Can’t beat it. It’s one of the few smells on earth that still represents purity.’
‘Quite the philosopher, aren’t we?’
‘Now and again.’
I had my arm around her shoulder; I tightened my grip, making her gasp.
‘You Tarzan, me Jane,’ she snickered, her right hand edging up to my neck and pulling my head towards hers. We kissed with a lot of intensity.
‘It must be love,’ she said abruptly, as we came apart.
‘What must?’ I was being deliberately obtuse. I knew what she meant.
She broke free and twirled around, arms outstretched.
‘This. You and me-e-e-e-e.’
Love? I still wasn’t sure. She had woven a spell around me right enough. Maybe those eyes I had thought of as hypnotic really did have the power to manipulate my emotions, to send me into a trance. Be that fact or fantasy, I was undeniably drawn to her as to no other woman since ... well, since the last time.
‘You must be right,’ I hedged, loath to come down off the fence of neutrality, and commit, even verbally, and then we were kissing again. It was getting harder in more senses than one.
In the name of decency, we broke the clinch before it became too physical, and meandered on along the walkway. Gulls, ever present, soared and squawked above us, silhouetted against the milky blue backdrop, whirling like scraps of torn paper trapped in a vortex. Down at the water’s edge a pair of egrets were canoodling. Out across the blue two sailing dinghies raced each other, neck and neck. It was a moment to savour, whatever perils lay ahead for us. We had undoubtedly progressed to what’s known as an “item,” were additionally bound together in our resolve to restore Maura’s daughter to her mother. In her case, it was mother- love, pure and unselfish. In my case, it was turning my back on my mercenary existence, doing the decent thing, proving that I was after all on the side of angels. If only marginally.
‘You’re carrying a big responsibility,’ I said, after a lengthy contented silence between us.
‘I am?’
‘You’ve converted me from villain to hero. Now I have to stay a hero for you, and not slide back into my old ways.’
‘Stick with me, love, and I’ll prove you right.’
Another hug, another kiss. Every tactile act drew me in deeper.
‘I’m staying the night,’ she said.
‘No need to remind me. But don’t make it difficult for me. I need to earn your love and all that goes with it.’
She managed to look pleased and disappointed at the same time.
‘I’ll respect your wishes, darling. So long as we both understand the shackles are yours, not mine. If you change your mind during the night, I’m in room 18, and the door won’t be locked.’
Squatting on a windswept hillside in southern California in November was not the most enjoyable way of spending Thanksgiving Day. Maybe I would at least console myself with turkey for dinner that evening. Meanwhile, I was stuck with my vigil.
The house at 110 Borodino Drive, Malibu, was a boxy affair: split level, terrace, balcony, modest oval pool with a diving board. The driveway was a pinkish shade of asphalt. A louvered veranda roof, its vents fully open to maximise the wintry sunlight. Here and there a tired-looking fan palm. A guy was using a net to clear debris from the surface of the pool. He had arrived in an unmarked pickup and was probably just a maintenance guy.
From my vantage point above Latigo Canyon Road, the main thoroughfare from the coast into the hinterland of the Santa Monica Mountains Park, nobody could get in or out of the place without being spotted. So far, after a couple of hours sprawled on the hillside the human traffic, apart from the pool guy, had been zero. No Justine Heider, no Belinda. No goons and no black Jeep, though it could have been in the garage or under the car port. No bugs bugging me either, for which I was thankful. Too late in the season, or else I was too high up.
A postal delivery came and departed. The front door was at right angles to me, so I couldn’t even see who answered it. I swigged water, did a few dozen push-ups, checked my watch frequently.
It was around noon when someone finally ventured outside. Male, elderly with not much hair and a stoop. He chatted to the pool guy, handed over some bills, whereupon the pool guy took off. A woman joined the elderly guy. Bouffant grey hair, overweight, in stretch pants and sweater. She inspected the pool on one knee.
This wasn’t looking too promising. They could be just caretakers, which might mean that Justine was away. Or they could be the proprietors or tenants.
Having so little to help pass the time, I had ample opportunity for reflection on the two people uppermost in my thoughts. Maura, very much the dominant thought, had been cool towards me when taking her leave yesterday afternoon. The reason was not hard to divine. I had declined the invitation of her unlocked door, therefore I was rejecting her. It was a natural and unsurprising reaction. I was the unnatural one. And for what purpose was I depriving myself? To prove to both of us that I didn’t just want to screw her, that I was a model of moral turpitude where she was concerned? I suspected I was trying to prove too much, that I was simply behaving priggishly even ridiculously. If Maura was in love with me, but I wasn’t in love with her but nevertheless cared deeply for her, admired her, respected her, wanted to protect her and Belinda, that should be enough. To put the seal of lovemaking on our fling, might even be the catalyst that would tip me over into that mysterious state of being in love.
Out of my self-analysis arose a resolve not to fight the natural course of events. To behave as instinct would have it. Just one condition I would still impose on myself. The initiative had to come from Maura. Twice so far she had opened the door (once literally), twice I had backed away. For me to now get physical would be to give the lie to my noble words, whereas to respond to her cajolery would simply mean that she was irresistible. As indeed she was.
My strategy vis-à-vis Maura thus settled, and in the absence of diversions down on Borodino Drive, my thoughts switched to her stepson, Richard Heider, putative good guy element of the Heider tribe. If he was genuine, a true ally, then he might be of some use. If, on the other hand, he was really still in thrall to Carl Heider, he would be sure to try and thwart my fine scheme to rescue Belinda. Not only that. If the stories about Heider’s method of solving problems were true, the lives of all of us would be endangered.
For the time being, Richard would have to remain an unknown quantity. He already knew too much. It was up to me to make sure he didn’t get to know any more, unless it was part of a policy deliberately to mislead.
The wind funnelling up the valley was chilly. It carried with it the smell of the sea tainted with Los Angeles smog. I didn’t envy those living lower down where the pollution was prone to linger. Vehicles buzzed up the canyon road in low gear at irregular intervals. Closer to home, a grey snake, like a length of rope, oozed over a rock on a ledge. The minutes were reduced to a crawl. I decided to curtail my surveillance regime and go take a look-see.
On with the portable false moustache, doughnut sized sunglasses, blue baseball cap supporting Los Angeles Dodgers. Enough to fool some of the people some of the time. I gathered up my gear, stuffed it into my knapsack, and set off down the path to Latigo Canyon Road. My cell vibrated. I halted to read the text message from Maura. She was thinking of me. She wished she were with me. She hoped I was taking care. It was signed off “Love Maura x.” I texted back appropriate sentiments. Added an O, representing a hug.
When I entered the pink driveway, I noticed the SUV under the carport. Nissan, not Jeep, silver not black. It wasn’t conclusive. So I thumbed the buzzer beside the front door with its flaking green paintwork. Inside, a dog yapped. Somebody, female, told it to shut up. It carried right on. The elderly guy answered.
‘Yes?’ he said, peering at me through a six-inch gap between door and jamb.
‘Mr Heider?’
‘Nobody here of that name.’
‘Well, Mrs Heider then. Justine Heider.’
His headshake was pretty conclusive.
‘How long have you owned this house?’
His face closed up like a lowered portcullis.
‘What’s it to do with you?’
‘Who is it, Eric?’ came a call from within.
Holding on to my patience, I explained the reason for my visit, which was to speak to Mr Carl Heider about trading his car for a new model.
His expression cleared. ‘Ah, Carl Heider. I remember. We bought the house from him last year.’ To the unseen female, he hollered, ‘It’s just some fella looking for the previous owner.’
That answered my question.
‘Did he leave a forwarding address?’ I asked.
‘No, I guess not. We get mail for him occasionally, we just toss it away.’
Neighbourly of them.
‘Wait a minute though,’ he said, clicking his fingers. ‘You could try the realtor in Malibu Beach, the broad who sold us the place. He bought another house from her, I remember her telling me. I think I’ve got her card someplace. She’s always pestering us to put the house back on the market. Shortage of prime real estate in the canyon, she keeps telling me.’
He trudged off and I heard voices – hers querulous, his irritated. I cooled my heels, kept watch on passing traffic which wasn’t much of a distraction. The sun was heading out over the ocean, and cooling fast. The wind was no more than a sough down here. It was super quiet, just a hint of birdsong. A fly droned by, making heavy work of it, torpid in the late season.
The guy came back with the card. It was dog-eared and stained. I gave it a once-over. CANDY’S REAL ESTATE, with the address, telephone no., email addresses, and website addresses.
‘You can keep it,’ he said.
‘Kind of you.’
I saluted him with it, proffered my farewell, and retraced my steps down the pink driveway.
Candy’s real estate office was on front line Malibu Colony Road, close to where it joins the Pacific Highway. A narrow, two storey building with a flat roof. Double fronted, both window spaces taken up with photographs of desirable residences. A nice place to work, with its panorama of uninterrupted ocean on the other side. I drove past it in my newly-rented Audi Q7 SUV to where the road ended at Malibu Point; the paved area widened there to enable drivers to turn around in a single manoeuvre. Back up the road, passing Candy’s again, then a right turn by the golf course, where I parked the car.
From there it was a brisk walk back to Candy’s, my disguise, thin as it was, still in place.
The door buzzed when I opened it. Inside was a spacious office with three desks arranged to face the entrance. Towards the back, a closed door was marked PRIVATE. That would be the office with the ocean view. A passageway to the right contained a water dispenser, a fax machine, and more doors, probably leading to rest rooms.
On the walls, countless photographs of properties for sale or sold. Behind two of the desks were seated smartly dressed young people, one of each sex. The girl in particular was painfully well-groomed. You wouldn’t dare touch her in case you disturbed a hair follicle or ruffled a cuff. She was on her cell phone, so it was left to the guy to deal with me.
Rising, he greeted me with a genial ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ his eyes raking me from baseball cap to sneakers. Probably calculating how much I could afford. He didn’t appear impressed.
‘Hi,’ I said, keeping it casual. ‘Don’t get excited, I’m not here to spend money – at least not on real estate.’
‘I see,’ he said, the tone suggesting he wasn’t surprised.
‘I need information.’
His smile, already strained, became more so.
‘About what precisely?’
‘My name’s Freeman.’ He wasn’t likely to ask for ID so I reckoned it would be safe to exhume my deceased identity. ‘I’m trying to contact a client of yours.’