“Shhh.” Candace holds up the handset, then glares at Savannah.
“Oh! Sorry. Sorry.” Savannah puts up her hands like she’s surrendering, takes a step back toward me.
Candace glances straight at me. Her beautiful green eyes narrow a bit.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Shit.
She returns to the painting, puts the audioguide to her ear again.
She doesn’t remember me, or I’ve changed. For the better? I need to restart my heart either way.
I grab Savannah’s hand. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 22
Savannah comes home at just past six, stoked after an afternoon of successful gallery schmoozing. She gives me the lowdown over beers next to the pool.
Bandineau shows up at the house at five to seven. He pulls up in a white Camry that screams rental! from every angle. Either he didn’t get the “casual dress” memo, or didn’t read it; he’s still wearing his suit shirt and slacks. At least he’s rolled up the sleeves. He has the wooden box cradled in the crook of his left arm.
After we shake and get through the usual pleasantries, I say, “Savannah’s made dinner plans for us. Asian-Latino fusion.” Savannah’s nowhere to be seen. Hmm. “Interested?”
“Of course.”
I grab a beer for him while he sets the box carefully on the dining-room table. “Are you going to show me what’s in there, or do I have to guess?”
Bandineau shakes a finger at me. “I thought you’d be interested.” He slides open the lid, pulls on the latex gloves on top of the packing peanuts, then starts excavating.
The unmistakable sound of heels on cement announces Savannah’s appearance in the living room. She’s wearing a bright teal square-necked tank, a fitted white high-low mini, and strappy white dress sandals. Where’d that come from? Her hair is down. I say, “Well, look at you.”
Bandineau twists to see her. His eyes go circular. “Savannah! I’ve never seen you wear anything like that. Is this the L.A. version of you?”
“No, it’s the it’s-warm-and-I’m-not-working version of me. Rick?”
“You look great.”
She joins us, grinning. Bandineau gently pulls the pot from the box and sets it on a napkin he folded on the table. He removes the top layer of bubble wrap, then the second layer.
It’s a petite, white, round-bodied Nam Ton bottle with a slender, flared cylindrical neck. The neck is a vivid cobalt blue; the footring is unglazed. A ring of loose blue brushstrokes around the bottle’s equator (the body’s widest part) suggests a garland of leaves.
I sink into the chair opposite the pot to take a close look. This is the first time I’ve seen one of these not behind glass. It’s a lovely little thing, and I say so.
“Isn’t it?” Bandineau stands there looking like the proud father of twins. “It would fit perfectly here. Now I see why you’re so taken by these.”
He made the connection. Good. I glance at Savannah. “What do you think?”
She leans her elbows on the back of the chair she’s standing behind to scope out the pot. Incidentally, I get a great view down her top. I’m sure that’s unintentional. “What can I say? It’s gorgeous. Do you like it?”
“I do, a lot.”
“You should buy it, then.”
I give Bandineau a significant look. “I’m working on it. How’s that going, Jim?”
He flashes a fast, empty smile. “I still need to talk to Lorena. She handles the sales.”
Sure. “What would this one go for?”
He rests his palms on the back of his chair and switches to his careful smile. “This one isn’t for sale—it’s part of the museum’s collection.”
“If it was for sale?”
He studies the pot for a while. “I can’t speak for Lorena, of course, but I’d venture… twelve to fifteen thousand.”
“Three to four times what the Phimai blackware sells for.”
“In that area. Nam Ton is much scarcer here than Phimai, so it makes sense.”
I look toward Savannah. “Is that what you’ve seen?”
Savannah stands straight and folds her arms. “Jim’s the expert.” She shoots me a cryptic look. “We’ll talk later.”
Twelve-to-fifteen grand’s still not much compared to what the client and Uncle Sam are pouring into investigations. Savannah knows something. It’s time to see if being potential boyfriend material is enough to get her to spill it.
The 1000 block of Abbot Kinney Boulevard in Venice is a jumble: an elementary school, cafés that use the words organic and free-range a lot, an auto shop, repurposed light-industrial space. On the third Thursday evening of each month, it turns into a food-truck hotspot.
“There it is!” Savannah practically bounces. “The blue one.”
The electric blue one—first in a line of ten—with big white lettering on the side: Oh! Oh! Oh! Yeah, like that. Maybe fifty people are waiting in line to get to it.
Bandineau looks puzzled. “Wait a minute. We’re eating at a food truck?”
Savannah grabs one of each of our arms and marches us across the street to fall in line. “It’s not just any food truck. It’s Norris Oh. He’s the hottest thing in Asian-Latino fusion right now. He’s got half a million Twitter followers.”
The line inchworms along. The bright LED streetlights give the area a football-stadium vibe. I watch the hipster street theater. I know I’m not that much older than some of these people, but I feel like I’m an ancient creature from another planet.
Bandineau says, “Savannah, thank you for trying, but I’d like to eat sometime this evening. I’ll just go down there and see what I can find. I’ll meet you at the car in an hour.”
I say, “If you leave, I can’t buy you dinner.”
He chuckles. “It’s a food truck. How expensive can it be?”
Savannah and I watch him go. I say, “He’s got no idea.”
“None.” She hugs my arm against her side. “Alone at last.”
“We’re still in public.”
She tsks. “That keeps happening.” Before I know it, she’s captured my hand. I don’t mind, and surprisingly, neither does Hoskins.
I say, “You said we’d talk later. It’s later.”
Sigh. “Okay. When you asked about the pot’s value? Jim didn’t need to think about it—that was just a show. He appraises ceramics.”
The only thing that shocks me about this is that nobody’s mentioned it before. “Including Nam Ton?”
“Of course. How do you think Lorena sets her prices?”
I try a stab in the dark. “By asking her supplier?”
She squints at me. “How’d you know Jim’s her supplier?”
“It wasn’t hard to work out.” It’s a cozy arrangement. Does the Norris know?
“True.” She shrugs. “It’s not like there’s much of a market for it that you can get to yet. You’ve looked, right?”
“Yeah. I haven’t found any for sale. Makes you wonder how Jim does his valuations.”
“It does, doesn’t it.”
There’s something in her tone I can’t quite figure out. “Do you know of any other suppliers?”
Savannah stares into the near distance. The warm wind kicks her hair around. Random tangles of cooking smells waft by. “Not back home.”
“Somewhere else?”
“In China.”
“So you know what it goes for in China?”
“I do, but that’s not useful.” She brushes a rogue chunk of hair away from her face. “The Chinese art market’s even crazier than ours. There’s a ton of money sloshing around, looking for something nice to buy. A lot of it’s about buying things to send offshore to get around currency controls. Their prices don’t apply here.”
I think about my next question. It’s something I need to know, but it’s pretty blunt. Savannah seems to be in a sharing mood, though, so I should take advantage while it lasts. “Do you
think Jim’s fronting for the supplier, or is he the supplier?”
She frowns. It’s a thinking frown, not an angry one. “It could go either way. My ‘female intuition’—” air quotes “—says he’s it.”
“For everything, or for Nam Ton?”
“I’m pretty sure it’s only for the Nam Ton wares.”
“How’d Jim get involved in Nam Ton, anyway? Did he ever tell you?”
“No. I know he read the journal article. I think someone gave him his first piece. Why?”
“I’m wondering whether he looked for it or it looked for him. Just how well do you know him, anyway?”
Savannah pulls her hair into a ponytail. “He’s a friend. We’ve talked a lot, mostly about art.” She cocks an eyebrow at me. “If you’re really asking if I’ve slept with him, then no. He’s not my type. He’s a nice guy, but… well, you’ve noticed. He’s not a lot of fun. Besides, when I met him, he and Lorena were a thing.”
No surprise. “They’re not now?”
“I can’t tell for sure. Not a regular thing, at least.” She checks our place in line—we’ll eat something this spring—then hugs my arm again. “Look, I want to take good care of you. I’ll make sure you get a pot you like for a price you’re happy with. We trust each other now, right?”
I remember her spying on Hoskins’ meeting. “Sure.”
We get back to the house by nine-thirty. Bandineau says his goodbyes a few minutes later. Savannah and I end up at the patio rail with a glass of white wine each, watching the Westside lights twinkle like grounded stars. Blue pool light dances on the walls and plants.
She says, “Today was fun.”
I think about a guy I knew who did skydiving. He told me that the first time he jumped he was scared shitless until he landed, then he thought, “This is fun!” and wanted to go up again right away.
Today was like that. There was a huge pucker factor until we left LACMA, but looking back on it, it was fun. Exciting. And somehow, having Savannah in the middle of it made it more exciting.
She asks, “Done with your glass?”
“Yeah.”
Savannah takes both glasses to the grill island, kicks off her shoes, then saunters back to me. She slides an arm around my waist and cuddles against my side. She fits well.
Hoskins doesn’t object, so I wrap an arm around her shoulders and give her a squeeze. The rosemary mixes with the jasmine and eucalyptus and jacaranda and leftover wood smoke from the neighbor’s outdoor grill. The result reminds me of so many happy summers in L.A.
She says, “That was a big sigh.”
“Yeah. This is why I love this place.”
“I get that.” She kisses my shoulder, then my cheek. Her fingers on my jaw turn my head so she can kiss my mouth. She tastes like Riesling and bibimbap. I flash back to us pulling bits off each other’s food boats after we finally got dinner. Laughing.
She slips away and drifts off. I hear her fingers swish through the pool water a few moments later. Then nothing. I peek over my shoulder to see where she went.
Savannah drops her top on a nearby sun lounge. Her mini’s already off. Her lacy white lingerie looks just about perfect on her.
Somewhere along the way, I forget to breathe.
She skims off her thong in one fluid motion, drops it on her skirt. The bra follows. Her all-over tan probably came from a store, but it’s lovely anyway.
Savannah half-turns and holds out a hand. “Swim with me.”
Chapter 23
42 DAYS LEFT
Friday morning. I’m sitting at the other round glass-topped table, this one set back from the pool’s shallow end. Another large burgundy umbrella throws shade but can’t do anything about the early heat. Fixing the air conditioning was the smartest move I made here.
Savannah sits next to me wrapped in a towel, plowing through her breakfast of muesli and yogurt, cubed fruit, and a big tumbler of something green. Her hair’s still wet and dead straight from her forty-minute swim workout. I should think about what I’m going to say to Bandineau, who’s due at nine, but watching Savannah’s lips wrap around her fork is fascinating.
I think about last night. Sex is play for Savannah. She even calls it that. She has a lot of energy, she doesn’t mind being silly, and she has zero body hangups. We laughed a lot. In some ways it reminded me of when I first got together with Janine, my ex-wife. It was fun, but exhausting. If she’s not on my side now…
Gracie appears at the door. “A man is here for you, mister.”
“Thanks, Gracie.” She leaves. I check my phone. “Five minutes early. Staying or going?”
Savannah’s fork doesn’t even hesitate. “Staying.”
“Remember how Jim looked at you last night when you showed up in a miniskirt? Imagine what’ll happen if he sees you in a towel. The poor man’ll have a heart attack.”
She covers her mouth with her hand until she swallows. “It’s good for him. Besides, I don’t really care if he knows we’re together. Are you ashamed of me?”
“What? No. Why would you think that?”
“Just checking.” She takes a big swig of green slime. “I’m not ashamed of you. So why hide it?”
This is a debate I won’t win. I kiss her. “I’ll talk to him inside.”
Bandineau finally figured out a definition of “casual”: he’s in a green-striped golf shirt tucked into khakis. He pumps my hand with his usual enthusiasm. “It’s good of you to see me on such short notice. I just need a few minutes of your time.”
“No problem, Jim. Have a seat.” I gesture to the sofas. We chat about the local museums. I tell him about Koreatown and the huge surplus of Asian restaurants in Monterey Park and Alhambra. It seems to interest him way more than the food trucks did.
Gracie appears with a coffee mug after a couple minutes. Apparently she remembers what he’d asked for yesterday. I need a Gracie in real life.
“What do you have for me, Jim?”
“Yes, of course.” He sets down his coffee more carefully than he needs to. “I spoke to Lorena last night. The long and short of it is, we’d be delighted to have you join our group of collectors.”
Yes! My reaction.
“That took long enough.” Hoskins’ reaction.
He puts up a hand. “I understand perfectly. I’m sure it seems like there were hoops to jump through, and I apologize. We simply need to make certain our collectors are legitimate.”
“‘Now more than ever.’ You said that at lunch the other day. I’ve been wondering—what’s changed? Why’s it more important now than it… Jim?”
I’ve lost him. He’s staring out the back windows. “Is that…?”
I twist to confirm he’s seeing what I think he is. He is: Savannah stands at the pool’s edge, pressing her phone to her ear with her left hand, holding her half-empty glass of green slime in her right. At least she’s still wearing the towel. “It is. Now—”
Bandineau sighs. “You’re a lucky man, Rick.” I hear you bastard at the end.
“Luck had nothing to do with it. Back to my question. What’s changed?”
He fiddles with his mug. “All I meant was, now that we’re gaining more collectors and getting Nam Ton into more museums, we need to know that our collectors are respectable, influential members of their communities.” He emphasizes his words by tapping the tabletop with all five fingertips. “We want people who can represent Nam Ton to other potential collectors.”
Sure. “Has that been a problem?”
“Of course not, and we’d like to keep it that way.”
Would he know yet? Maybe not if the feds haven’t started raining indictments. “What happens next? Where do we go with this?”
“It couldn’t be simpler. Let Lorena know the next time you’re available. She and I will put our heads together and bring a selection of wares to the gallery for you to look at.”
“No passwords or secret handshakes?”
&
nbsp; Bandineau chuckles. “No, no, nothing like that. You’re a member of the club now.”
“You’ll be there?”
“Certainly. You could say I’m part of the bargain.”
I nod. “Good. I plan to be up there for the day on Wednesday. I’ll let her know my schedule.” Now it’s time to work on the next part of Hoskins’ story—why Bandineau will profit by having him involved. “What do you get out of this?”
His eyebrows try to knock together. His mouth grows serious. After some thought, he says, “I suppose you could call me an evangelist for Nam Ton. It’s extraordinary work and I want people to have a chance to see it before the looters and smugglers make it disappear. That’s a huge problem, and it’s not getting better.”
“That’s not exactly what I’m asking. What do you personally get out of this? I mean, you’re doing all this work. It’s a lot of effort, probably a lot of expense. Where’s it leading you? What’s your goal?”
“I’m… not sure I understand.” He looks it, too.
I pretend to weigh my next words. “Can I be frank?”
“Of course.”
“I’ve seen how you look at this house. How you look at my collection, my business, the mayor’s visit. How you just looked at Savannah. I—”
He has both hands up. “Rick, I’m sorry if I crossed a line—”
I wave that away. “It’s okay. Her in a towel… if you didn’t look, I’d wonder. Remember how I said that being with Savannah isn’t luck? None of this is. I built this life. I didn’t have all this planned when I was a junior architect figuring out where I wanted to go, but I knew what I wanted. I’m trying to work out how being a ‘Nam Ton evangelist’ gets you to the house and the woman, because I’m not seeing it.”
Bandineau stares at the table for a few seconds, sighing occasionally. I can’t tell if I broke him, he’s trying to think of an answer, or he’s pissed that I’d get so personal.
I say, “If it’s too soon to talk like this—”
“No, not at all. Besides, I pried into your life, I suppose it’s fair that you get to ask about mine.” He leans back into the loveseat. “You’re right. I do have ambitions. I’d like to live in a house like this with a beautiful woman. Any man would. That’s… not attainable in the Bay Area. Property is much too expensive, for one thing, and there are far more successful men there than successful women of any age.”
Chasing Clay (The DeWitt Agency Files Book 3) Page 14
