Chasing Clay (The DeWitt Agency Files Book 3)

by Lance Charnes

  Pro tip: plant rosemary. Lots of it. “And you thought everyplace smells like the freeway.”

  She giggles, wanders off to the pool’s edge, then bends to trail her fingers through the water. The safari dress gets very tight across her butt; accidental, I’m sure. Then she turns to grin at me. “I love this place. Want a roommate?”

  The good news: she’s starting to flirt with me again. The bad news: I can’t tell if she’s serious. This is as good a time as any to let her think about everything she’s seen so far… and to remind her who I’m supposed to be. “Look, I have a lot of work to do to prepare for the meeting tomorrow morning.”

  Savannah’s mouth curves downward. “Work.” She draws in a deep breath as she looks around the patio. “Okay, then. I guess you won’t mind if I do some work, too.”

  “Knock yourself out.” Though I don’t know what kind of work she can do down here. I head for the patio door. “There’s Gen 5 wifi throughout the house. The password’s ‘rysselberghe,’ all lower-case.” I spell it. He was a Belgian neo-Impressionist painter. “Make yourself at home. Ask Gracie if you need anything.”

  Just as I reach for the door handle, she calls out, “Front door keys?”

  When I turn to look back, I see she’s aiming an ironic eyebrow at me. “Only if you take over the payments.”

  She smiles. “Give me time. I’ll get there.”

  Chapter 19

  The rest of the afternoon is about building the PowerPoint slides for tomorrow morning’s “meeting” and writing lines for my “staff.” I also generate some agendas to leave lying around on the table. I’d wanted to get the office glass filmed so nobody could see inside, but there wasn’t time. We’ll have to stage the last fifteen or twenty minutes of the supposedly two-hour-long meeting in case Savannah or Bandineau goes outside and looks toward the office.

  I somehow manage to get something accomplished despite spending half my time staring out the office’s glass wall. It gives me the million-dollar view of the canyon and the Westside beyond. And the pool.

  Savannah’s propped up on a sun lounge, her top half inside a circle of shade thrown by a large burgundy patio umbrella. She works her phone and the laptop perched on a little round teak table next to her. A second table holds her beer bottle. She’s hiked her skirt to her hips and knows exactly how to position her gorgeous legs so the light glistens on the sunscreen. Watching her rub sunscreen on them was a near-religious experience.

  Gracie marches in every half-hour or so to replace my empty glass of Coke with a full one. She also brings me more tags she’s found on things we got from prop houses. Then she glares out the window, tsks, and marches out again trailing disapproval.

  Savannah disappears around four-thirty. When she hasn’t reappeared by five, I decide it’s time to check whether Gracie’s cooking her for dinner. Just as I push out of my desk chair, I hear the pat-pat-pat of bare feet on terrazzo. Savannah strolls through my office doorway, leans against the jamb and crosses her ankles. The bottom half of her safari dress is wrinkled where she’d rolled it up outside. “Still working?”

  “‘Fraid so. You’ve been busy.”

  “I made appointments to meet gallery owners. I thought I’d start tomorrow afternoon and go into Saturday, if that’s okay with you.”

  “Not too late Saturday—that’s when you go back home. I’ll get you a car so you can go wherever you want.”

  “Thanks.” She waves at the conference table to my right, a softly curved Heywood-Wakefield wishbone dining table. “What’s all that stuff?”

  “Project books. The rolls are plans. Over there’s a draft request to the L.A. Planning Commission for a zoning variance. That brick on the chair—” I point to one of the six reproduction black-leather-and-aluminum Eames executive chairs “—is an EIR.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Environmental Impact Report.” I borrowed all this from an old friend who still has an actual architecture job. I nod toward the plastic bag dangling from her hand. “What’s that?”

  “Plantain chips.” She pulls one out and bites it in half to demonstrate.

  “Damn, girl, you should’ve said something. Share.”

  She ambles to the desk and holds the bag out to me. “Where’d you discover these?”

  “Miami.” I dig out a handful. These have some kind of chili powder on them. Yum. “You?”

  “There was a Puerto Rican bodega just down the street from my place in Brooklyn. When I was unhappy, I’d go through a bag of these instead of a pint of Ben & Jerry’s.” Savannah settles a haunch on the front edge of my desk and leans over to check out what’s on my computer screen. It’s a project schedule. She shrugs, then peeks inside the tumbler next to the monitor. “What’s in here?”

  “Coke.”

  She swipes a mouthful, then flashes a smile at me. That smile…

  I need to think about something other than perfect teeth and that tanned thigh resting on my desktop. “Did Sotheby’s make you unhappy?” She was an Asian art specialist at their Manhattan auction house.

  A wistful look takes over her face as she watches the breeze ruffle the palm trees. “No. That was a great job. I loved it. I’d still be there if they let me.” Big sigh. Now I get the brave smile. “But that’s not the way it worked, so here I am. Glad they didn’t keep me?”

  Careful. “You look too healthy to be a New Yorker. You wear sunshine well.”

  The brave smile turns into a real one. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’” She slides off the desk and parades to the office door, holding the bag of chips high. “If you want more, you know where they’ll be…”

  Gracie cooked dinner, then left at 6:30. I’d asked her to prepare something from her home in Mexico. Savannah and I eat Michoacána corundas and enchiladas morelianas on the patio as the western sky slowly fades to mauve and the ridge crests turn gold, then black. There’s lots of happy sighing.

  We drift to the railing with a plate of ate—guava pulp cooked with sugar, then cut into cubes—and watch the lights flick on in the houses and gardens around us. Savannah stands close enough for me to feel her heat, but not quite touching. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

  “You can ask.”

  “Are you with anyone?”

  I’ve been wondering when she’d ask that. I’ve also been wondering what my answer will be. “What do you think?”

  She purses her lips. “If you are, it’s not serious. No woman lives here or spends any time here. I can tell.”

  “Don’t let Gracie hear you say that.”

  “She doesn’t get to keep things here, does she?”

  “Generally not. She sets up a little ofrenda in the kitchen around the Day of the Dead. I add pictures of a couple people I knew who died.”

  Savannah scowls. “That’s a lot different than having her toothbrush in your bathroom.”

  “True. Are you attached?”

  “No. Not since the middle of last year.” She folds her arms and squares her jaw. “Enough about me. Share.”

  This shouldn’t be hard, right? Savannah’s pretty and smart and has great legs. Yes, she’s coming on awfully strong, but I get that. Hoskins is rich and straight. If he’s available, he’s a hot commodity in a hellishly competitive market. She’ll lose if she doesn’t move fast.

  I used to envy the rich guys who always had beautiful women dripping off them. Turns out that gold-digger management is a big problem. I’d never heard of “pre-coital agreements” or “pre-cops” (pre-nups without the nup) until I started working at the gallery. A couple clients who were rich, single, straight guys told me stories that curled my hair. So Hoskins is probably very wary of any woman who throws herself at him.

  Savannah should know this, but here she is. Why? Because of what her mom told her? Because she needs money? Or is it a test—if Hoskins goes for the gold, he can’t be real because he should be more careful?

  I finally say, “I see wo
men.”

  Savannah looks very satisfied with herself. “I’m sure you do.”

  “Remind me how this is your business?”

  She hands me the half-empty plate of ate, then takes my free hand in both of hers. Her voice gets low and velvety. “We just had a romantic, candlelit dinner on this lovely patio, under a pretty sunset, and had a nice conversation. I’m wondering what that means. I know what I’d like it to mean, but first I’d like to know if I’ve been sitting in someone else’s chair.” She leans close and whispers, “Was I?”

  I’m still not ready to answer that. I need to think before I do. “It’s time to take you to your hotel.”

  I drive Savannah and her luggage to the Peninsula Beverly Hills, a five-star sister property to Bangkok’s famous Peninsula Hotel. It’s a quiet drive, either because I left the Alfa’s top down and it’s too noisy to talk, or because she’s pissed that she’s staying at a hotel instead of in Hoskins’ bed.

  I hand her out onto the sidewalk. “A town car will come for you around 9:15 tomorrow morning. Jim should be in it. It’ll take you up to the house.”

  “Okay.” Savannah fiddles with the handle on her roller bag while the bellman stands by waiting for her to do something. “I had a nice day.”

  “I’m glad you did.” And I am, not just because it’s helpful to the project.

  She passes her bag to the bellman, then spends some time watching my face. Finally she sighs, wraps her hand around the back of my neck, and stretches to kiss me. I could duck it but I don’t want to. It’s like the Tonga Room kiss except longer and more intense.

  After a while, she lets go and smiles. “You see? It is better when you kiss me back.”

  It is.

  Chapter 20

  43 DAYS LEFT

  I’m out of bed before six Thursday morning—sleeping in for me. I grab a quick shower, shave, dress, and stagger toward the smell of fresh coffee. Between worrying about today and trying to figure out Savannah, I didn’t sleep much last night.

  Gracie’s in the kitchen piling up the stuff she needs to cook breakfast for me and the extras. She shoots me a scathing look. “Is the guera here?” Meaning, the blonde.

  “Not yet.”

  She pours coffee, then shoves the mug at me. “She wants something.”

  “I know. I just don’t know what yet.”

  I race around the house, checking every prop and piece of furniture for tags or labels that I missed on Monday. I also figure the odds on what Savannah will do today. I deflected another of her passes last night; she may have written off Hoskins by now. She may not have an incentive anymore to do anything other than sell him pots. Maybe she’ll try harder to land him. Or maybe she’s pissed that Hoskins turned her down and she’ll actively try to sabotage him with Bandineau.

  With everything else going on today, I don’t want to find out the hard way.

  The doorbell rings a few minutes before eight. Group A of the extras isn’t scheduled to show until nine, and Savannah and Bandineau won’t get here until nine-thirty. A late delivery?

  No, an early one. Savannah. What the…?

  “Hiiii.” She gives me her brightest smile. She’s wearing a white sleeveless silk shell tucked into a white knee-length pencil skirt. Between her teeth and her clothes, she’s reflecting enough light to give me a sunburn.

  “You’re… early.”

  “Uh-huh. It seemed just too sad to sit down there and eat all alone. So I thought I’d Uber up here and we could have breakfast out on the patio. I’m sure Gracie’s cooking something wonderful.” Her eyebrows slowly levitate. “Can I come in?”

  The only thing I can think of is this morning’s schedule, lying in pieces around my feet. According to the story timeline, the meeting’s supposed to have started by now. Did I tell her that yesterday? “Uh, sure. I’m waiting for my staff. There’s coffee in the kitchen.” I should tell her stay away from Gracie when she has knives, but Savannah’s in the kitchen before I think of it.

  I step outside on the forecourt to call Olivia. “We’ve got an emergency. One of the marks showed up ninety minutes early. Group A needs to be here now.”

  “Oh, dear. I’ll tell them presently. By the by, I had to make a substitution yesterday. She’ll arrive separately.”

  “An associate or one of your strays?” Four of the six extras are agency associates. It’s the first time I have proof that more than three people work for Allyson.

  “They’re not strays. Good lord, I’m not finding them on the pavements. They’re people we’ve used casually in the past. The substitute is… Allyson.”

  “What?”

  “Steady now. She volunteered. She’s been briefed and she promised to behave.”

  The last damn thing I need right now. “Whatever. As long as she gets here fast.”

  I have to force myself to act calm when I go back inside. Nothing to see here, move on. I check on Savannah—nursing a mug of coffee while she waits for her laptop to boot on the patio table we used last night—then walk deliberately to the office. I want to pace in tight, fast circles to work out the anxiety and dread stuffing my brain, but Savannah might see me. (Actually, she won’t. She’s over twenty feet away and facing the canyon. Still.) Instead, I sit in my desk chair and pretend to work while my heart and stomach compete to see which can squeeze into the tightest ball.

  I miss Feo. Now that he’s gone home with his dog dad, I realize how long it’s been since I’ve had a dog or cat to take care of, or to have take care of me. Feo kept me from blowing a gasket from stress over the past week. Patting a dog can do that. Now all I can do is check the time on my computer about every thirty seconds and strain my ears listening for the doorbell.

  It rings at 8:23. A couple minutes later, five extras in business casual file into the office, two with Starbucks cups, the others clutching identical white ceramic mugs from Hoskins’ kitchen. I hop out of my chair. “Please spread out around the table. We’re short one, but she should be here soon. I hope you downloaded all the simulation materials yesterday. You know your roles and what we’re doing here.”

  What are we doing here? Topanga Development’s monthly project review. Our project managers (three guys sitting along the wall side of the table), the chief architect (a dude all in black), and the CFO (a woman with a thick rope of auburn hair) are here. The company counsel’s missing. We look at our active projects, deal with problems, and talk about general company business. The meeting’s here because we don’t have an office; we all work out of our homes or at client sites. If they read the brief, they know all this.

  I tell them, “We’re here early because one of the marks is here way early. We need to be in here for the whole ninety minutes, but we don’t need to be acting unless she comes this way.”

  The dude in black nods toward the window. “Is that her?”

  “That’s her. Questions?”

  “She single?”

  “Don’t even. Okay, let’s get started.”

  Laptops open; screens light up. Gracie brings in our breakfast (chilaquiles, very good). The PowerPoint I finished yesterday shows on the wall behind the table’s head; the slides change automatically at different intervals. One guy reads some choice headlines from The Onion, getting a few laughs. The redhead shares a video of the Cutest Seal Pup Ever lumping around a diner in Santa Cruz. I check on Savannah at the top of each lap; she’s tucking into her chilaquiles like she hasn’t eaten in a week. Good.

  The doorbell rings again about ten minutes after we start. I take a deep breath. High heels tap down the hallway toward us. Gracie opens the door and stands aside.

  Allyson strides in, stops, then crosses her hands on the handle of a small black roller bag, about the right size for a laptop, some files, and maybe a clean shirt. “Pardon my tardiness. I trust I haven’t missed anything important?”

  Even though I knew she was coming, the reality of it takes a moment to sink in. “It’s… fine. Grab th
at chair—” at the end of the table closest to the door “—and catch up.”

  I can tell which of the five other extras are associates: they’re the ones with dead-pale faces and eyes the size of fifty-cent pieces. They all stare at Allyson. She notices. “I’m simply an extra, like all of you. Mr. Hoskins is in charge.”

  That’s unusually gracious of her. “Thanks. Let’s get back on track here…”

  We pick up where we left off. Allyson settles in. Savannah leaves the patio. Various parts of my body unclench. This might work…

  The dude in black sitting at the head of the table nods toward the window again. “She’s back.”

  Savannah’s at the railing, sipping from her mug. She swipes a peek in our direction, then turns back to the view down the canyon.

  I say, “Okay, time to work.”

  Spreadsheets and Primavera project schedules fill the laptop screens. I stand at the table’s head and stop the slideshow on a concept rendering of a multi-structure commercial/residential campus. “The topic of discussion is: what are you watching on TV, and why should the rest of us watch it?”

  Why? So we’ll look like we’re talking instead of staring at computer screens—it’s a meeting, not a lecture. I act like I’m refereeing the conversation, occasionally pointing or changing the slide.

  Savannah drifts up the patio toward us.

  Twenty minutes pass. The discussion meanders: disguises on The Americans, Netflix, what the Oscars got wrong. I pass behind Allyson and notice she’s doing actual work on a spreadsheet that might be the agency’s books. I’d love to look more closely, but she aims the Eyebrow of Doom at me.

  One of the “project managers” asks, “She’s getting awfully close, isn’t she?”

  Savannah’s at the pool’s deep end, maybe twenty-five feet from the office windows. Her back’s to the office, but she doesn’t make any secret of looking over her shoulder at us.

  Allyson watches me, impassive except for her eyebrows, which are asking impertinent questions. Like I need the pressure.