He had very little money, having mostly relied on her largesse for his expenses. He owned the Prius, but his insurance was due for renewal. Without work, his future was uncertain.
He was considering a move to New York, where he might find work in the theater and where Marisol’s influence was less pervasive than it was in L.A. But he would require more cash to establish himself there.
He hoped she would stake him. One final gesture for old times’ sake. He figured she owed him. After all, it was because of her that his career had stalled in the first place.
He switched on the Prius and pulled out of the parking lot onto Century Park Boulevard. The towering skyscrapers of Century City had long since replaced the back lot of Twentieth Century–Fox, which had originally stood there.
All that remained of William Fox’s dream factory was a replica of a New York City street and an elevated train platform on which Barbra Streisand’s Hello, Dolly! had been filmed.
He headed for the freeway, which would take him back to Camarillo, an industrial city located in the outer reaches of Los Angeles where he was staying in a low-rent residential motel managed by one of his would-be actor friends.
He thought about Marisol and his need for resettlement money. Surely she wouldn’t refuse him. They were still married. The divorce papers had yet to be signed.
And if she said no? He’d deal with that if the time came. But he was already formulating a backup plan. One that would carry with it an exceptionally hefty price tag.
11
Jesse was sitting at his desk, sipping coffee, when Molly hollered, “Renzo Lazzeri on three.”
Renzo Lazzeri owned the largest nursery in Paradise, which was once a factory warehouse that he had purchased when the factory closed its doors. He converted the space into a massive greenhouse, a showcase for every kind of garden and plant life indigenous to the Northeast. He added a landscape design department, which became notable for creating the most beautiful gardens in Paradise.
Grasses, saplings, hedges, bushes, seedlings, and flowers fought for space in his greenhouse. He specialized in rhododendrons and hydrangeas and also beach roses, which bloomed in profusion at all the best waterfront homes. And if you needed a riding mower or a top-of-the-line Weber grill, Renzo was your guy.
Jesse picked up the call.
“Renzo,” he said.
“Jesse,” Renzo said. “How the hell are you?”
“Better since I gave up hope.”
Renzo’s laughter filled Jesse’s ear.
“To what do I owe the honor,” Jesse said.
“Frankly, I didn’t know who else to call.”
“What’s up?”
“This may sound strange, but I think I’m being cheated by Paradise Water and Power.”
Jesse sat upright in his chair.
“How so,” he said.
“I use a lot of water around here. Everything I have is always thirsty, so I keep an eye on my consumption levels. My manager regularly checks the meter readings. Lately he’s noticed that our bills are larger than they were in the past. Not by a whole lot but noticeable.”
“So what did you do?”
“I checked our meter readings against the meter readings on the invoices.”
“And?”
“They were different.”
“The meter readings on the invoices were different from the meter readings that your manager took?”
“They were higher.”
“Indicating a greater water usage than what your readings reflected?”
“Yes.”
“Did you do anything about it?”
“I asked my manager to call W and P and explain what he had discovered.”
“And?”
“They told him that his readings were wrong.”
“So what did you do?”
“I called you, of course.”
“It’s good to be the king,” Jesse said.
“What should I do?”
“Leave it with me. Let me look into it.”
“With pleasure.”
“Yours isn’t the first call I’ve had about this.”
“So I’m not completely crazy?”
“I never said that.”
12
On his way home, Jesse stopped at Assistant DA Marty Reagan’s office.
Reagan was at his desk, in his shirtsleeves, poring over reams of material. File folders and legal briefs covered the desktop. Many were stacked in piles, several of which were overloaded and threatened to topple over.
Reagan removed his reading glasses and looked up at Jesse.
“We got slammed,” he said. “Judge released her to her parents.”
“What about the charges,” Jesse said.
He picked up a stack of papers from the visitor’s chair in front of Reagan’s desk, placed them on the floor, and sat down.
“The driver of the Audi is awake,” Reagan said. “He’s got an awful headache, but he’s alert and expected to make a complete recovery. He’s refusing to press charges. When the DA heard that, he insisted we drop everything, too.”
“Including the reckless endangerment?”
“Yes.”
“Running a stop sign?”
“Yes.”
“Resisting arrest?”
“Yes.”
“The father, right?”
“I never said this, but it turns out he’s a major contributor.”
“To the DA?”
“He runs for the office every four years,” Reagan said.
“So daddy’s little angel gets to skate?”
“With a hundred-dollar fine for texting.”
“Suspended license?”
“Judge waived that, too. You didn’t hear it from me, but you can likely bet the farm that Mr. Cassidy assured the driver of the Audi that he would be generously taken care of.”
Jesse sighed.
He reached over and picked up the stack of papers. He placed them back on the chair, stood up, and headed for the door.
“I’m sorry, Jesse,” Reagan said.
“Thanks anyway, Marty.”
Jesse reached for the doorknob.
“A word of advice?”
Jesse looked back at him.
“The DA thinks you should walk away from this.”
“Excuse me?”
“I know you, Jesse. This isn’t going to sit well with you. As your friend, I’m suggesting that you let it go. Don’t be looking for any more trouble with the Cassidys. With the girl. Best to just drop it.”
Jesse didn’t say anything.
“Please don’t do anything stupid, Jesse.”
Jesse flashed him a lopsided grin.
“I mean it,” Reagan said.
—
It was dark when Jesse got home. He turned on the lights and headed for the kitchen. He was intercepted by Mildred Memory, his cat, who circled him, rubbing herself against his legs, her tail upright and shimmying.
Mildred had become primarily an indoor cat, and a rather chubby one at that. Jesse constantly spoiled her. She responded by behaving like an imperious hausfrau.
Jesse opened a can of her favorite food and scooped half of it into her bowl. Then he filled a glass with ice and poured himself a scotch.
He sat down heavily on one of his two armchairs, took a healthy sip of the scotch, and considered the events of the day.
The Courtney Cassidy experience was unsettling. Authority in the service of unbridled riches never failed to raise his hackles. Marty Reagan was right when he predicted it wouldn’t sit well with him. It didn’t.
He thought about Frankie Greenberg. She was smart and attractive. She was interesting, and he was interested. His recent adventure with Alexis Richardson had ended when she left town. He and Sunny Randall remained apart. He’d been alone for a while, and he was restless.
He yawned.
He drained his glass, then turned off the lights and went upstairs, Mildred following closely behind.
<
br /> By the time he had changed and got into bed, she’d pretty much taken it over. He picked her up, lay down, and planted her beside him. She stood up and glared at him. Then she climbed onto his chest, circled twice, lay down, and fell asleep.
He was able to reach over and turn off the light, but he was now forced to sleep on his back, with Mildred’s burgeoning girth freighting him down.
“Aw, hell,” he said, squirming. But after a while he, too, fell asleep.
13
Jesse was parked across the street from the Cassidy estate, which was located on the South Shore, spread across twenty acres of prime beachfront property.
The Cassidys had razed the estate’s original house, a sprawling shingled Colonial, and in its place had erected an oversized postmodern featuring a pair of extended wings off the main house, each containing lavishly appointed guest suites and an exercise room.
They had also added an Olympic-size swimming pool, two tennis courts, a putting green, and servants’ quarters.
Between the beach and the pool they had constructed a cabana that housed separate dressing-room facilities for men, women, and children. It contained a game room, a TV room, and a card room with a full-size bar.
The estate’s big gates swung open, and a Lexus convertible turned onto Beach Road, heading toward town.
Courtney Cassidy was at the wheel, holding a cell phone to her ear. Which was illegal.
Jesse fired up his cruiser and followed her. She was driving above the speed limit, oblivious to the fact that she was being followed by a police cruiser. She continued to talk on her phone.
After a while, Jesse hit the siren and lights. He saw Courtney look in her rearview mirror. He beeped the siren a few times, signaling for her to pull over.
When both vehicles were stopped on the shoulder, Jesse got out of his cruiser and walked to the Lexus. Courtney lowered her window as he approached.
“License and registration,” he said.
She stared at him.
“You again,” she said. “What do you want this time?”
“Your license and registration, please. And while you’re at it, hand me your phone, too.”
“Why?”
“It’s illegal in Massachusetts for anyone under the age of eighteen to talk on a handheld device while driving.”
“Everyone knows that’s a stupid law.”
“It’s a law, however, regardless of your personal lack of regard for it.”
“I suppose you’re gonna arrest me again.”
“No. I’m going to cite you for breaking the law. And I’m going to confiscate your phone.”
“Must you?”
Jesse didn’t say anything.
She removed the license from her wallet and handed it to him.
“Registration,” Jesse said.
“It’s in here somewhere. Do I really have to find it?”
“You do if you don’t want to spend the next several hours in jail.”
She glared at him, then started searching for the registration slip.
“Cell phone,” he said.
“What?”
“Give me your phone.”
“No.”
“Don’t force me to arrest you again.”
She sighed.
She gave him the phone.
“Everyone talks on their cell phones,” she said.
“Didn’t yesterday teach you anything?”
“Like what?”
“Like how driving while distracted can cause accidents and seriously injure people.”
He stepped away from her car and began writing the citation.
She returned her license to her wallet and the registration slip to the glove box.
She muttered the word “shithead” under her breath.
He heard her.
“You talking to me,” Jesse said.
“I didn’t say anything.”
He stepped closer to the car and stared at her. Then he handed her the citation.
“What do I do with this?”
“What it says to do.”
“How about I just give it to my father.”
“You can give it to the tooth fairy, for all I care.”
He smiled at her.
“Have a nice day,” he said.
14
Ryan followed Marisol’s black Range Rover as it pulled through the gates into the driveway of her Beverly Hills mansion. He’d been parked down the street, waiting for her, sailing on a crystal meth high.
She had stopped taking his calls, and it had occurred to him that this might be his only opportunity to speak with her.
By the time Marisol saw him approaching, it was too late for her to reach the house or get back into her car.
He grabbed her arm.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “You gave me no choice.”
“Let go of me,” she said, trying to wrest herself free.
“I want you to forgive me,” he said, tightening his grip.
“You’re frightening me, Ryan.”
“That’s not my intention.”
“Let go of me.”
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
He let her go.
She stepped backward, massaging her arm.
“I know things haven’t gone well with us,” he said. “I did things I’m ashamed of. I beg your forgiveness.”
“My forgiveness?”
“Yes.”
“Come off it, Ryan.”
“No, I mean it.”
“What do you really want?”
“I want us to be friends.”
“Friends? How could you even think such a thing?”
She glared at him. He reached over and caressed her face. She cringed.
“I need a favor,” he said.
She didn’t say anything.
“I want to leave California. I want to start fresh. In New York.”
“What’s stopping you?”
“I’m broke.”
“That’s not my problem.”
“I know,” he said, growing agitated. “But I’m asking you to help me.”
“Help you how?”
“I need twenty-five thousand dollars. To get me to New York. To get me settled there. To allow me to live while I start over.”
“You want me to give you twenty-five thousand dollars?”
“Yes.”
She didn’t say anything.
“We had some good times, Marisol. We even loved each other. What’s done is done. Just this one favor. Please. I’ll never bother you again.”
She thought about it.
“All right,” she said.
“You’ll give me the money?”
“Yes.”
“Now?”
“I don’t keep that kind of cash around.”
“You could write me a check.”
“All right,” she said, after a moment.
She reached into her purse, took out her checkbook, and wrote one for twenty-five thousand dollars. She handed it to him.
He looked at it. He put it in his pocket.
“Please leave now,” she said.
He nodded.
He turned and walked to his car. “Thank you,” he said, looking back to her. But by then she had made it safely into the house.
15
Jesse pulled to a stop in front of the Community Services Building, a Federal-style red-brick behemoth, built in the early 1900s as the original Paradise High School. It was now home to several municipal offices, including the Department of Water and Power.
Jesse entered the office of William J. Goodwin, the longtime DWP commissioner. Goodwin had held the position since the mid-1980s, making him the longest-serving public official in Paradise.
He and Jesse had met on a number of official occasions. Goodwin was a tiny man, quiet and unassuming. He dressed immaculately, favoring expensive suits worn with bow ties. He spoke in a high-pitched tenor that often made him the butt of ill-intentioned humor.
/> Behind the desk in the outer office sat Ida Fearnley, Goodwin’s longtime assistant.
Miss Fearnley was a large woman in middle age, well known for the shortness of her patience and the tartness of her tongue.
“Chief Stone,” she said to Jesse. “What a nice surprise.”
“Miss Fearnley,” he said. “Still guarding the fort, I see.”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“And life remains good up here at W and P?”
“It’s pretty much the same as always. How can we help you?”
“I’m sorry to show up unannounced, but I wonder if the commissioner might have a few minutes to spare.”
“He’s in there. Let me go see what he’s up to.”
She left him and entered the commissioner’s office.
Jesse walked the outer office, glancing at the many citations and awards on the office walls. Most reflected appreciation for Mr. Goodwin’s long years of service.
The door to his office opened, and William J. Goodwin appeared.
“Chief Stone,” he said. “An unexpected pleasure. Do come in. Can we get you anything?”
“Thank you, no,” Jesse said.
The two men shook hands, and Goodwin gestured for Jesse to enter ahead of him.
Goodwin’s office looked like the set of a London men’s club in a forties movie. Lots of leather and mahogany.
He ushered Jesse to a pair of glossy brown leather armchairs. They sat. Goodwin’s feet barely touched the floor.
“I’m sorry to be a bother, Mr. Goodwin,” Jesse said, “but I’ve recently had some inquiries regarding your department, and I thought it better to direct them to the source.”
“Me being the source?”
“Exactly.”
“To what inquiries are you referring?”
“Do you know of any recent rate increases regarding water usage?”
“None. We purchase our water directly from the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, and the rates have been constant for quite some time. I can’t say I agree with the state’s decision to maintain these rate levels, but clearly my opinions count for very little.”
“What are your opinions,” Jesse said.
“It’s my belief that our society has little respect for this most precious of our natural resources. We use it capriciously and wastefully. When you consider the shortage of potable water on our planet and the manner in which we squander our share of it, I find it shameful that it costs so little, the result of which allows us to deplete our supplies as recklessly as we wish.”
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