Chasing Clay (The DeWitt Agency Files Book 3)

by Lance Charnes

  “Of course, of course. If I—”

  “They’re not going through forensic analysis, they just have to look right. The people who’ll see them know art, but they’re not specialists in this period or style. And Sim, this is hot. Whatever they’ve got, I need to know about it by tomorrow evening. Got all that?”

  “Certainly, m’lad. You can rely—”

  “Repeat it to me.” It scares me when he says you can rely on me.

  “Yes, yes.” He pauses. “Of course. I have it here. Ehm… Impressionists?”

  I work at home through Saturday until it’s Sunday, then Sunday until dark. Luckily, my roommate Chloe’s spending the weekend with her girlfriend-of-the-month, so I don’t have to hide what I’m doing.

  Which is everything.

  Think about all the things in your home. Can you list them all? I need to, because we need to plant them. How many extras (people who populate the world of the con) will we need? What kind? What will they do? What will they wear? What cars does Hoskins drive? What kind of towels does he use? Does his housekeeper (shit—add her to the extras list) shop at Costco? What does she drive? What music does Hoskins listen to? When? Laptop or desktop? One screen or two? Where’s he get his mail? Street delivery? (No, P.O. box, so nobody steals it.) Where’s he put it? What’s on his keychain? What’s in his kitchen cabinets…?

  We need a house. I can get only so far without a house.

  “You are aware it’s Sunday there?” Olivia asks me this during our fifth conversation this weekend.

  I’m roaming around the pool house’s front room to stay awake. Chloe sleeps in the back room; I sleep out here. She gets privacy, I get the bathroom. “Realtors work on Sundays. They do open houses. Well, not now, it’s almost six. Did you get anything yet?”

  “No. Patience. We’ve been looking for just over a day.”

  If she’s frustrated or worried, I don’t hear it. “It’d help if the clock would stop ticking.”

  “Agreed, but it shan’t. Do stop to breathe.”

  If only. “Have you ever done anything like this before?”

  “I have, though it’s been yonks. I once had to locate and kit out a safe house in thirty-six hours. I slept for two days after, but it was a bit of fun.” There’s a smile in her voice.

  Olivia’s been dropping these little nuggets since we’ve been in almost constant contact. I didn’t expect that we’d bond over real estate, but I’m glad for it. It keeps me from feeling too alone. “Was that for Allyson?”

  “Oh, no. It was in a previous life, before I came to work with Allyson.” She said with, not for. Significant?

  I think about all the organizations that might need an emergency safe house and come up with a lot more reasons why I never, ever want to piss off Olivia. “While you’re waiting, can you look for cars?”

  “Certainly. Tomorrow, you and I need to start casting your extras.”

  “Yeah. I’m still working on that, along with everything else.”

  Olivia’s voice turns motherly. “One-Seven-Nine?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Don’t spin yourself into a panic. It rarely helps. You and I together shall make this work, and you will get what you need, and you will succeed. Do you understand?”

  “Yeah.” I understand; I’m not sure I believe it. “Fifty-four days, Olivia.”

  Chapter 14

  53 DAYS LEFT

  Olivia gets inquiries from fourteen different properties by Monday. All of them are bank-owned, cleared out for renovations, or have absentee owners. After we go through them, we’re left with four that aren’t obviously completely unusable.

  I rent a car and visit three of them on Monday night and Tuesday morning, working my way west from the Hollywood Hills to Benedict Canyon. Each one’s more awful than the last. Anybody who tells you photos don’t lie is lying.

  “They sent you all their dogs,” I tell Olivia while I eat lunch at the Century City mall. “Have you gotten anything else?”

  “Only if you’re willing to completely re-evaluate your needs. Were the ones you saw truly so naff?” That last line’s almost a plea.

  “I sent you pictures. You tell me.”

  She sighs. “Please do try to find something nice to say about the last one.”

  The last one is up a narrow street on a ridgetop in Bel Air. Most people who aren’t from here (like the Clampetts) think Beverly Hills is the place they ought to be. Angelenos know that the serious real-estate porn happens in Bel Air. It’s a rugged area full of private roads, cul-de-sacs, and very expensive homes. You’re more likely to see celebrities picking up their kids at Westland School than you are catching them shopping on Rodeo Drive. The house the Beverly Hillbillies lived in? It’s on Bel Air Road.

  Beth the Lawyer asks, “What sort of film are you making, Mr. Harmon?”

  I’m using my Mike Harmon identity for this. He’s a freelance art advisor—a male version of Savannah—who’s apparently branching into production design. “It’s an indie financial thriller. JC Chandor’s the director, with Stanley Tucci.” If she looks him up, she’ll see Chandor did another financial thriller a few years ago, and Stanley Tucci’s in everything.

  We’re standing in the core of a sprawling mid-century modern house—vaulted exposed-beam ceilings, fieldstone walls, decorative geometric iron screens, terrazzo floors, wood paneling, floor-to-ceiling fireplaces. I look out the fifteen-foot back windows, across the freeform pool, to the glass towers of Century City.

  It’s perfect… except it’s a wreck.

  It looks abandoned, not just vacant. The pool’s empty if you don’t count the layer of dirt and leaves in the bottom. The floors are dull and scratched. The copper vent hood over the round firepit in the living room hasn’t been polished anytime this century. All the interior door hardware and most of the light fixtures are missing. Somebody did a disastrous kitchen revamp in the late ‘70s and never touched the place again. There’s water damage on the tongue-and-groove ceiling paneling, holes in the plaster, peeling wallpaper, and at least three boarded-up windows.

  But… terrazzo can polish out. The tile work in the bathrooms is original. Did I mention the semicircular wet bar in the living room? Wash these windows and the view’ll be like flying low over the city. I want it real bad. “What’s the deal with this place?”

  Beth the Lawyer—Bethesda Van Zorn, another blonde with a city name—appears beside me with her arms folded over her open salmon blazer. She’ll break bones if she falls off her heels. “The previous owners neglected the property.”

  “No joke. Why spend the money to buy a place up here and let it go to hell?”

  She shakes her head. “You’d be amazed. Will this work for your film?”

  It’ll work for my house. I’ll even do the reno work myself. “It’s great. We’ll just need to clean it up. Do the current owners care what we do with it?”

  “Please confirm that you’re insured before you burn it down.”

  “No worries. But… is there anything we can’t do?”

  Beth aims a tolerant smile my way. From a few feet away she looks Savannah’s age, but up close in the light, I can see the shiny parts of an eye lift and a chin tuck. If she’s going to do her face, she should do her hands, too. “My clients intend to tear it down in two weeks. You can do whatever you want.”

  I probably look like she slammed the eight-foot front doors on me. “They’re… they’re gonna destroy this place? That’s criminal.”

  She shrugs. “It happens, you know. They want someplace bigger, more modern. We’re on an acre-and-a-half lot, Mr. Harmon. They bought that, not this.” She points at the ceiling.

  Beth’s right. A lot of fantastic old places like this end up in a landfill so somebody can build a white box with lots of glass.

  Then something she said hits me. “Two weeks?”

  “Yes. If you decide you want to shoot here, you have to be out completely by the
25th. That’s when the work starts.” She brushes a stray chunk of hair away from her face. “I’m prepared to conclude an agreement with you today, if you’d like. Since my clients have no particular use for this house, they’re willing to accept any reasonable amount for location fees.”

  Wow. Perfect and cheap. I pull my work phone from my back pocket. “Let me call the production office. I need to know what our ceiling is.”

  Olivia’s silent after I tell her the situation. Then she whispers, “Two weeks. Good god.”

  My thought exactly. “I’d like three or four days in the house so I can deal with whatever the marks throw at me. If your guy starts tomorrow, that gives him seven days’ prep before I have to move in. Can he do it that fast?”

  “I’ve no idea. He built a pub for us in six days with a great deal of drama. Could you do what you’re proposing in seven days?”

  “I’m not a contractor.” Though I probably couldn’t screw it up any worse than a couple real contractors I’ve worked with. “The place looks structurally sound. The roof leaks, but it won’t rain here for the next six months, so we don’t care. I think it’s all cosmetic. With enough good people working 24/7… it’ll be tight, but it could happen. The problem will be furnishing and propping it out in time.” I go over the to-do list I built in my head, and it gets longer every minute. “Call him. Ask.”

  She breathes for a while. “No. I’ll tell him. If this house is ideal, we’d be daft to hope for a better one.” She hesitates. “As you point out, the clock is ticking.”

  I spend the rest of the day in the house, making lists of things to do, specing out fixtures and finishes on my phone. Beth the Lawyer left me the keys after I bargained the location fees down to $400 for each prep day and $1250 for each shooting day—and I get to define what’s a “shooting day.” I don’t know how good that is, but it’s less than her starting ask, so it’s good enough.

  I plod out to the back terrace, perch on a retaining wall for a dead planting bed, and watch Century City turn gold in the late-afternoon sunlight. The eucalyptus and jacarandas chase the musty indoor funk out of my sinuses. The smell is so iconically SoCal that I’m surprised somebody hasn’t sold it as a perfume. Somebody downslope has their outdoor grill going. (Another thing to add to another list.) I let all this wash over me until my head’s in the right place, then thumb a contact on my phone.

  “Rick, is that you?”

  “Hi, Savannah. Hope I’m not calling too late.”

  “No, this is fine. So… do you love your pot?” She makes that sound like a come-on.

  “It’s great. I like it so much, I hope you’ll pick out another one for me. Lorena’s got my info, so just have her bill me.”

  “Oooh. You trust me to shop for you now?”

  “You’ve earned it.” As far as she needs to know. “Find me something I’ll like. When you do, hold onto it. I may be up there for the day later this week.”

  “Really? I’d better get working. This’ll be fun. When will you get here?” She sounds genuinely stoked. Either I made a bigger impression than I knew, or she’s as good at faking sincerity as I am.

  “I’ll let you know. Say ‘hi’ to Jim and Lorena for me.”

  I want to see their reactions when I invite Bandineau and Savannah down here. I also want to make it as hard as possible for them to say no. They have to come. I’m staking a huge amount of money—and my job—on putting on this show.

  Chapter 15

  50 DAYS LEFT

  Savannah and I walk the four blocks from the St. Francis to Achara. It’s 59 degrees and overcast outside, but her white above-the-knee sheath—Carolina Herrera or a good knockoff—glows like summer.

  Lorena’s waiting when we reach the gallery. Today she’s wearing an embroidered burgundy cheongsam—a Chinese column dress with a standing collar—over loose black slacks. “Come right this way, Mr. Hoskins.”

  I zero in on a black bowl perched on a red-silk plinth on the same sideboard as last week. It’s about ten inches wide by two or so deep, with a small shoulder and an indented rim. A short chunk of rim is missing, but the bowl’s otherwise intact and in great shape. It shines gently in the gallery’s lights. I get a surprise when I look inside: a sunburst of burnished radial lines streaks out from the center to the shoulder. It’s very simple but very pretty.

  I ask, “Is this mine?”

  Lorena’s just to my right like before. “If you want it.”

  “Do you love it?” Savannah appears on my left, smiling as usual.

  “It’s gorgeous.” I look up at Lorena. “Can I touch it?”

  “Let me get some gloves for you.”

  She brings back a pair of latex gloves. While I drag them on, I ask, “Should I always use gloves?”

  “For unglazed earthenware, yes. It’s porous and it can absorb any oil or grease on your hands.”

  “That would be bad.” I hesitate for a moment, then gently cradle the bowl in both hands and raise it to eye level. It’s surprisingly light, but there’s still a weight to it. A highlight from an overhead spot slides across the bowl’s curves as I move it.

  Lorena gently presses down on the back edge. “Look just below the shoulder.”

  “A herringbone. That’s cool.” It’s a single band, maybe half an inch high, circling the bowl, with burnished hashmarks forming a herringbone pattern.

  Savannah says, “It’s unusual on bowls. It usually appears on restricted vessels.” Meaning, pots with mouths smaller than the body’s width.

  “Very cool.” I should put the bowl down before I drop it, but I don’t want to. It feels… I dunno, right in my hands. I eventually, reluctantly, set it on the plinth, then snap a picture with my phone. Just for the hell of it, I send it to McCarran. I have to show off to somebody.

  While Lorena wraps the bowl, Savannah steers me into the statue gallery. “Do you really love it?”

  I guess there’s no such thing as stroking her too much. “It’s great. You did a good job.”

  “Thanks.” She ducks her head; aw, gee. “What’s your schedule like today?”

  I can play a little hard-to-get. “Meetings all day. I have an early dinner meeting, otherwise I’d invite you to dinner.”

  “Ohh, that’s so sweet.” A spark of mischief flares in her eyes. “But that’s perfect. There’s a place I’d like to show you. It’s a little crazy, but I think you’ll love it. It’s the Tonga Room.”

  “Is that a club?”

  “No.” The way she says that, the next word should be silly. “It’s at the Fairmont. It’s like the ultimate tiki bar. It’s a total throwback, but I love it. Will you go with me tonight? We can celebrate.”

  “What are we celebrating?”

  “Your pot has a new friend. That’s good. I know enough what you like to pick things out for you. That’s even better.”

  Okay. She’s basically asking Hoskins out on a date. Personally, I like to encourage this kind of behavior, but I think Hoskins might resist a little. “You work for me, you know.”

  She sighs. “I don’t see it that way. Think of me as a friend who knows a lot about something and sometimes helps you out. Can you do that?”

  “I don’t pay friends to help me.”

  Savannah folds her arms and gives me a mildly annoyed look. “Sure you do. You buy them lunch or dinner. You buy gas for them. Maybe you give them a present if they’ve done something really nice.” She scrunches her cute little cheerleader nose. “It’s just a little more obvious with me.” She straightens the lapels on my suit coat. “Come on. It’ll be lots of fun. And it’s as San Francisco as it gets—you’ve got to see it.”

  I’ve resisted as much as it’s safe. “All right, fine. I’ll meet you at…” I pull a time out of the air “… eight.”

  If I turned a flashlight on her grin, the reflection would blind me. “Perfect! I’m looking forward to it.” She points at me. “Don’t wear a suit. You’ll be the only one there in
a tie.”

  “What’re you going to wear?”

  Another smile, sly this time. “Oh… something simple. You’ll see.”

  I wait until I get back to my suite (I love saying that) and check up on the second day of construction at the house before I look at the receipt for my new bowl. The total comes to $3,562.50, including sales tax and Savannah’s commission.

  We’re dropping what’ll probably be low six figures to convince Bandineau and Lorena that Hoskins is a real, live boy. But these pots are amazingly cheap—compared to Impressionist paintings, at least, and certainly compared to the insane prices for contemporary art. With what Allyson’s paying me for this project, I can afford to buy them.

  ICE must have something juicy on the client. It makes me wonder again what exactly he’s done.

  And why are the feds so hot on this case? We’re talking nickel-and-dime stuff here. The numbers don’t add up even if Lorena’s selling the Nam Ton wares for ten times what I just paid. Why are they willing to trade my freedom for what I find?

  It all seems like overkill. I’m missing something.

  Chapter 16

  I follow a stream of happy people through the Fairmont Hotel’s cream-and-gilt hallways until I turn a corner and there it is: the entry to the Tonga Room. Tiki torches, tiki gods, lava rock, a wood-plank reception stand, knots of people waiting to get in. And Savannah.

  She shimmers in the dim light. Her white dress could be sprayed on. It’s sleeveless, her left shoulder is bare, and her right shoulder peeks through a dart-shaped cutout. The hem ends halfway down her thighs. They’re very nice thighs.

  So this isn’t a work-friends-going-out-for-a-drink date. This is a real date, the kind that ends up in somebody’s bed if everybody plays their cards right. I’m not sure yet whether I’m ready for a happy ending. I am interested enough to see where she goes with this.

  I saunter up to her like I’m used to this kind of thing. “You said ‘something simple.’”