Of his own mother, Tim recalled only that she had soft hands and a melodic voice; she'd figured out before Tim was four that she'd be better off without either of the men in her life and was just gone one afternoon when he'd come in from the backyard. She had not been mourned or mentioned thereafter – neither was permitted – though Tim did remember standing in her abandoned work space, running his hands over her drafting table as if part of her still resided there. He'd been brought up by a man who regarded him as a curiosity – a resolute boy bent on lawfulness even as he was being deployed as a prop in one elaborate con after another.
"How are you doing?" Tim asked.
"Well, thank you. A bit tired. Picking up trash beside the freeway at six A.M. wears one out, but at least I get to wear a stylish orange vest. Now and then when the stars align, the Petty Ones bestow graffiti-removal duties upon me. It's great fun." He smiled a pastor's patient smile. "Is there something I can help you with? I'm quite busy. As you can imagine, car stereos do a brisk business in these environs."
"Yes. I need…I'd like your help. With a case."
"Back behind a badge, are we?" He turned to the abbreviated counter and tapped on a primitive computer. "I don't much care to contribute to the greater glory of law enforcement."
"I want to know how you picked marks. For cons."
He paused, his interest piqued. He gave a quick glance over his shoulder, but Ricardo was banging away on a dashboard in the back. "Depends on the con."
"How can you tell if someone has money?"
"A rich mark? I'm not sure. At this stage of the game, I just sense it."
"Well, think for a moment. If you had to break it down."
He nodded, a thoughtful frown wrinkling his face. As Tim had hoped, he couldn't resist showing off. "Well, you don't look at name brands. Not on clothes at least. Shoes sometimes, more with men – a woman will take out a second mortgage on her trailer to buy a pair of Jimmy Choos. Bulky-wallet guys are broke, generally. Money clips aren't. Mesh baseball caps – no money. White caps with curved bills – money. Check a shirt – has it been dry-cleaned? Are the lines crisp? Nice pens. Rich people have nice pens. Look for the snowy cap of a Montblanc, the cursive swoop of a Waterman. And watches, but not middle quality. Anyone can be gifted a Movado or a Tag for a birthday, a graduation. You want to look for Baume amp; Mercier, Breitling, high-end Omega, Cartier if they're nuevo."
"What else with new money?"
"They dress just wrong. A little too hip, like a divorcee in a singles bar. They reek of desperation. They've gotten ahead of themselves and see the long drop down."
"Other ways to tell rich marks in general?"
"Ask what their fathers do. I know – one of your childhood sore spots. Kids like you will cower from questioning. But those whose daddies are doctors and judges will perk their ears and bark. Richness begets richness, and affluent spawn may feign contrived humility, but if pushed right, they aren't afraid to own up fast and proud." He closed his eyes for a moment, lost in pleasant remembrances. "There's something in the movement, in the posture, that can't be taught – a smug self-assurance that's one of the many side effects of an entitled childhood." His eyes opened, held their gaze. "You move like a rich man, Timmy."
"Must have been my privileged childhood."
"Must have been." His father pressed his lips together, making them disappear. "The main trick to conning, I'd say, is circumventing people's thinking. You want them to respond instinctively, to salivate at the bell."
"Give me an example."
"Okay. A mark comes in here, he wants a stereo and speakers. What do I sell him first?"
"The stereo."
"The stereo. Why?"
"Because in contrast to it, the speakers will seem cheaper."
He smiled, pleased. "That's right. We sell him a two-thousand-dollar head unit first. After that, what's eight hundred for speakers? Besides, you can't enjoy the two-thousand-dollar stereo without them. Then you load him up with even cheaper accessories he doesn't need. It's all chump change now, Constant Buyer, in comparison. Just you try running a mark up the ladder. If you start with a thirty-buck CD-cleaner kit, the sheep are already thinking, 'My goodness. That's a whole dinner at Claim Jumper.' You don't want to climb that ladder. No, sir." He ran a hand across his clean-shaven face. "Of course, this sales scheme's old hat now – Christ, they teach it on Rodeo – but I knew it back when. I knew it like I know how to smell people. Like I know how to get into their brains."
"Or their wallets."
"There's a difference?" He paused, his posture flawless, his hands clasped behind his back. "Where do you think you got it? Your school-teachers adored you. Your commander in the army took you under his wing. The marshal himself hung the Medal of Valor around your neck – you'd think you won the biathlon at Lillehammer. Do you think you got by on natural smarts and talent?" A smile warmed his features; even approaching sixty, he was still more handsome than Tim. "You know the angles. The well-timed favor. The chuck on the shoulder. Dropping heat-seeking flattery. You know how to read the river, just like me." When Tim didn't rise to the bait, he arched a silver eyebrow. "Why all this interest? Considering a career switch?"
"Background information."
"Mugsy and I used to run a lucrative ruse out in La Canada that might be of interest. The mark can be anyone, really, but we had an easier go with elderly folk living alone. Widows are always good. I'd throw on a three-piece suit, and Mugsy would dress as a bank guard. I'd hit the mark around four o'clock, tell her I'm a professional bank examiner and her account has shown a few concerning irregularities. I have a culprit in mind, a crafty teller who's been doctoring transactions in certain accounts. I furnish him with a Jewish name. To be safe, would she mind going to the bank and withdrawing her savings so our team of highly qualified individuals can monitor the transaction as it crosses the culprit's desk?"
His tone, even now, exuded authority and reasonableness. "She pulls out her life savings and brings it home in a cab we furnish. I wait with her maybe a half hour, share some small talk over coffee. That's when Mugsy arrives. He tells her the culprit showed his hand and was arrested. Her account was straightened out, fortunately, and now it's safe from any future tampering. Our anxious widow is relieved beyond words. Since by now the bank is closed, I instruct Mugsy to return her money to the vault. We're back at the house splitting green before angina strikes." He moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. "What's that face? Do I disgust you?"
Tim looked away, unsettled as always when confronted with his father's talent.
"Well, before you get too swept away in moral indignation, let me remind you of this: Those schemes fed you every meal of your childhood." His tone, as always, remained conversational, as calm as a flatline. "They dressed you, paid for your school supplies, afforded you the bed in which you slept every night. There's a little piece of me in you – in everyone, actually, but especially in you. It's in my DNA, packed into every one of your angry little cells."
Revulsion rose in the back of Tim's throat. A familiar flavor -the same he'd grown up with.
"Beware pride, Timmy. It's the most dangerous trait. We are low creatures. If we're foolish, we hold self-illusions. If we're smart, we use others' self-illusions against them."
"Fortune-cookie insert?"
"Need I remind you pride landed you in your own little quagmire last year?"
"My daughter being murdered might have had something to do with it, too."
"True. Quite true. How is Andrea?"
"Fine."
"Send her my regards."
"I will. We finally cleaned out Ginny's room…" Tim paused, stupidly anticipating some response but drawing only a slightly bored gaze. His capacity for expecting change in his father staggered him in its imperviousness to data. No matter how much he'd toughened into adulthood, some hardwired hope still flickered, the glow of a pilot light. He remembered, too late, Dray's warning.
His father's face sharpened,
as if Tim's words had just sunk in. "You know what might go well in there? Your mother's old drafting table."
"You still have it?"
"Yes, but it's up in the rafters. A hassle to get down."
"I could take care of that."
"It's worth some money."
Tim took a moment to respond, his face burning. "I could pay you for it."
A pristine Lexus screeching into the lot drew his father's attention – more pressing matters at hand. The plate frames broadcast a Beverly Hills dealership. A tanned man in a crisp suit popped out and headed for them, a mascara-heavy girlfriend trailing in his wake.
To Tim's surprise, his father turned away from the approaching customer, absorbed in some paperwork. He slid a pair of eyeglasses from a drawer, an odd move given his 20/15 vision.
"Excuse me. Excuse me."
Tim's father glanced up over the rims of the lenses. "Yes?"
The man stood with his legs slightly spread, suit fabric pulling tight at the biceps. The girlfriend arrived, a bit winded, and took up what appeared to be her customary post behind his shoulder.
"I'm looking for an Alpine ALD 900. The guy my dealer outsources to can't get his hands on one. Can you?"
Tim's father's eyes returned to the folder before him. "Pardon me for saying so, sir, but that's an extremely exclusive line. Perhaps I could recommend something a bit more…reasonably priced?"
Head bowed, Tim took his leave, heading out into the morning blaze. Behind him he heard the customer's raised voice. "Why don't you get it for me and let me worry about what I can afford?"
And his father, setting the hook with newly realized chagrin -"Right away, sir."
Chapter fourteen
Tim asked Dray to join him for his six o'clock drive to Hidden Hills. They tangled in traffic at Thousand Oaks, lurching along beside a glossy red Ferrari with an Angels flag snapping from the rear window. Tim worked his lip between his front teeth, and Dray watched the scenery inch by, letting him muse. Between Top 40 hits on 98.7, Ryan Seacrest bemoaned his dating life.
Though growing up with a despotic father, an expended mother, and four older brothers hadn't been a breeze through the express lane, Dray had a perception about family matters that far exceeded his own – one of the reasons he wanted her with him at the Hennings'. Plus, as a sheriff's deputy, she had a stronger handle on state law.
The Hennings' house, an enormous Spanish colonial with pantile roofing, abutted an equestrian arena. The solid-core oak door, buttressed by strips of hammered iron, opened to a vaulting foyer and a displeased man with the size and bearing of a WWF grappler.
"Help you?" His nose, flattened and asymmetrical, suggested a history guarding club doors or encountering hockey boards. Black hair shorn in a buzz cut didn't widen his casting options. The Mickey Mouse voice, so discordant given his build, tipped Tim that this was the spirited caller he'd hung up on earlier in the day. One of Will's men.
"Yes, Tim and Andrea Rackley here to see Will." Tim's proffered hand hung in the air for a moment before he withdrew it.
The man stepped back, letting them enter. He walked with a slight limp, a cocker spaniel materializing to scurry alongside him. His body language suggested he was not a dog person. Tim and Dray followed him across a wide stretch of ceramic tiles into an expansive kitchen area. A wall of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked an unrestrained lawn. Perched on two barstools pulled up to a granite-topped island, Will and Emma were finishing an early dinner. Though the meal seemed casual enough, Emma wore a conservative dress, stockings, and slingbacks. Perusing the Hollywood Reporter, Will foiled her in a velour jogging suit, royal blue with an embroidered F prominently displayed.
"Rooch Banner," Will said proudly, his game-show-host sweep of the arm acknowledging the low-grade butler. "Maybe you recognize him. He had a half season with the Rams."
Tim's apologetic shrug probably didn't help him with Rooch in the rapport department. Dray admired the photos adhered to the Sub-Zero -Will lying on his back flying the baby above him, the baby dressed as a sunflower for her first Halloween, a weary postpartum Emma snuggling the baby in a loaf of pink blanket.
Will drained a glass of vivid green liquid. To Dray's bemused stare, he said, "Blue-green algae. Antioxidants," then threw down his napkin and rose. Rooch set about clearing the plates as Will gestured them down a hall. They passed a palatial Pilates room and a home theater with rows of cushioned seats, finally descending into a sunken living room rimmed with couches and adorned with energetic one-sheets of films Will had produced.
Will sank down and patted the cushion. "C'mere, pooch."
The dog leapt up and curled under his arm. It yapped a few times, tail wagging. Emma snapped her fingers at it irritably.
Hurwitz, Gregg – Rackley 02 the Program (2004)
Will rose and headed for a bar in the corner. A framed picture showed Leah in high-school-graduation garb, a pair of boxers and a smiley-face T-shirt peeking out beneath the gown. She was flashing the peace sign and smiling at someone out of the photo's span. It would take a strong-willed kid to argue that outfit past Emma. Tim wondered whether Leah's unorthodox attire explained why the photo was consigned to the bar. His mind moved to the baby's pictures proudly displayed on the refrigerator.
Will dug into an ice bucket that Tim noted was kept packed. "Drink?"
"I'm fine."
"Vodka rocks," Dray said.
Will poured her an alcoholic's fill, which he matched in his own glass.
Emma took the opportunity to shoo the cocker spaniel from the couch. The dog took off, probably in search of Rooch, his reluctant playmate.
Will handed Dray her drink, then threw a glance at his Cartier. "Nice of you to make it."
Tim ignored the sarcasm. "No problem."
"Would it be rude of me to ask why your wife decided to tag along?"
"We want her brain on this. She's smarter than me."
A petite cry echoed down the tiled hall. Will and Emma tensed until the baby was soothed into silence by an unseen retainer. Mrs. Rooch?
Will sat back down on the couch. "Marco informed me you were reinstated. As I promised earlier, I'm happy to pay you an additional stipend on the side."
"Thanks, but I can't accept."
Will's eyebrows rose. He settled back with a faint grimace, regretting lost leverage or just upset at not getting his way. "Why don't you fill us in on your progress?"
Tim caught them up. Emma wept quietly for a few moments when he related the likelihood that Leah had moved into the cult home. Will let her cry on his chest as Tim finished.
"She needed more from me." Emma blew her nose into Will's handkerchief. "After her father died, I tried to be both parents -too indulgent, then too restrictive. For the past three months, I've replayed in my head everything we might have done differently. Sending her off to camp crying, and -"
"Emma," Will said gently, "you're making yourself crazy."
Because he would have preferred to address Leah's current position, Tim found Emma's self-flagellation to be wearing. It hit him that her reaction held up an unflattering mirror to his own manner of grieving.
Emma's exhale puffed out her cheeks. "I just wish I knew what could drive her to do something this foolish."
"We can address that once she's in our hands," Tim said. "Right now we need to focus on getting her back."
"How old is the baby?" Dray asked.
"Seven months."
Will said, "What the hell does that have to do with anything?"
Dray looked at him squarely. "Mrs. Henning is speculating about Leah's motivations. Leah's interest in the cult would seem to have followed the baby's arrival."
Will threw a glance at Tim. "What's the plan from here?"
"I'm hoping this is Leah's cult, but I'm still going off guesswork at this point. If she's there, I'll see if I can isolate her and persuade her to come with me. If she's not, I'll pump the others for information, get some names and leads."
"
You'll find out who the bastard leader is. Can't you go after him? Cut the head off the beast?"
"It's not the quickest route, and time is of the essence. Plus, I'm not tasked with going after the entire cult. Just with finding your daughter."
Crunching ice, Will seemed to wrestle with his appetite for revenge. Finally he said, "Just get her home so we can take things from there."
Tim thought of Rooch Banner, Will's impatient rustling, the well-scrubbed tile of the kitchen. Not the warmest home to return to.
"Kidnapping our own daughter," Emma said tearily. "What has this come to?"
"I'm not kidnapping her," Tim said. "I'm taking her into custody. Think of it as a covert arrest."
Dray's head cocked. "On what grounds?"
"Grand theft auto."
"Pretty thin for a federal arrest. Plus, then what? You gonna charge her? Out of the cult and into jail? Sounds like a brainchild hatched in our fine federal bureaucracy, all right."
"We don't have to charge her, Dray."
"So just arrest her on trumped-up charges and violate her rights."
Tim took a deep breath, letting the mood in the room settle. "I'm hoping to come across something stronger. Evidence of Leah's being in imminent danger" – at this, Emma emitted a choked little sob – "or a 5150, danger to self."
"You can't make that determination," Dray said. "What, are you gonna smuggle in a psychiatric-evaluation team under your trench coat?"
Emma studied her through bleary red eyes. "How about abuse charges?"
"Adult abuse isn't illegal."
"What do you mean?"
"There's no adult-abuse statute. If there was, we'd have to run out and arrest anyone who's ever tried S amp;M. Whatever Leah's doing, it sounds like it's consensual. We've got assault and battery, but those require a victim pressing charges, which doesn't sound likely in this case." Dray shot Tim a glance. "This isn't news to you – you know how shitty conviction rates are when battered women back down."
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