by Meg Gardiner
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Teaser chapter
‘‘Simply put, the finest crime suspense series I’ve come across in the last twenty years . . . your basic can’t-put -’em-down thrill rides.’’ —Stephen King
China Lake
‘‘Do me a favor, okay? Lay your hands on . . . China Lake. [It] had me at page one. Miss Gardiner makes it all work. . . . Amazingly entertaining.’’ —Stephen King
‘‘[An] exciting mix. Great stuff.’’ —Independent on Sunday
‘‘With a colorful cast of richly delineated characters, a protagonist with whom the readers will easily identify—all big hearted, quick tongued, and hair-trigger tempered . . . a fast-paced ride through some of the more dubious nooks and crannies of the American dream.’’ —The Guardian (UK)
‘‘Fast and hard-edged. Buy it, read it.’’ —Hull Daily Mail
‘‘A cracker, with memorable characters, memorable lines, and a plot that races along to an explosive ending. A great summer read.’’ —Huddersfield Daily Examiner
‘‘Very well written, racy, and witty.’’ —Tangled Web
‘‘From beginning to end, China Lake is a book no reader of thrillers will be able to put down. Great characters, dynamic plot, nail-biting action—Meg Gardiner gives us everything.’’
—Elizabeth George
Kill Chain
‘‘Evan Delaney is a paragon for our times: tough, funny, clever, brave, tireless, and compassionate. The pace and inventiveness never flag, and the climax . . . is both nail-biting and moving. But the brilliant writing is what puts this thriller way ahead of the competition. Intelligent escapism at its best.’’ —The Guardian (UK)
‘‘I loved every minute of it. A breathtaking thriller, gripping and relentless.’’
—Caroline Carver, CWA Dagger-winning author
of Blood Junction
"A rattling good read.’’ —News of the World
"Brilliant." —The Evening Telegraph (Peterborough, UK)
‘‘The action is high octane from the first page. Once you pick it up, it’s a very hard book to put down.’’
—My Weekly
‘‘Fast and furious.’’ —The Literary Review
Crosscut
‘‘Full of classic Gardiner one-liners . . . but mostly there’s a serious freezerload of scare-you-silly chills." —Stephen King
‘‘A tense and exciting thriller where almost anything seems possible. A conspiracy theorist’s must-have.’’
—Independent on Sunday
‘‘Easily one of the best thrillers I’ve read this year. I could barely wait to get to the next page. If you start this book, be prepared to be unable to put it down. Meg Gardiner has written a cracker.’’ —Caroline Carver
‘‘This book rips. It makes Silence of the Lambs look like Mary had a little one—it never lets up.’’
—Adrienne Dines, author of The Jigsaw Maker
Jericho Point
‘‘Meg Gardiner dishes out the gripping plot in tense helpings. Short, punchy chapters keep the pace flowing, and you’ll find it impossible to find a resting point.’’
—Evening Times (Glasgow)
‘‘[Gardiner’s] depictions of the criminal elements of the Hollywood fringe and the local drugs culture is a tightly observed slice of realism. This is a relentless, claustrophobic examination of mistaken identity and the terror of being accused of a crime for which you are not responsible.’’ —Sherlock
‘‘Fast-paced, witty, and brutal.’’
—The Independent (London)
‘‘If you read Sue Grafton, Lee Child, Janet Evanovich, Michael Connelly, or Nelson DeMille, you’re going to think Meg Gardiner is a gift from heaven for thriller/mystery readers." —Stephen King
"Meg Gardiner is a welcome addition to the ranks of American thriller writers.’’ —The Daily Telegraph (UK)
‘‘Meg Gardiner has rekindled my interest in thrillers.’’
—The Independent (London)
‘‘Meg Gardiner is a class act at the top of her game.’’
—My Weekly
‘‘Meg Gardiner has a powerful style—fast-paced, immediate, and imaginative.’’ —Sherlock
‘‘Meg Gardiner goes from strength to strength.’’
—OneWord Radio
‘‘Meg Gardiner is brilliant at making the over-the-top seem utterly convincing.’’ —The Guardian (UK)
‘‘Meg Gardiner hard-boils her American crime with the best of them. . . . If you like Sue Grafton and Janet Evanovich, you ought to have discovered Gardiner by now.’’
—The Evening Telegraph (Peterborough, UK)
‘‘Meg Gardiner takes us to places we hope we’ll never have to go in reality.’’ —Caroline Carver
Also by Meg Gardiner
China Lake
Jericho Point
Crosscut
Kill Chain
The Dirty Secrets Club
OBSIDIAN
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First Obsidian Printing, July 2008
Copyright © Meg Gardiner, 2003
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PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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eISBN : 978-1-4406-3349-2
For Tani Goodman
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For their help with this novel I thank Paul Shreve, Sara Gardiner, MD, Bill Gardiner, and Suzanne Davidovac; and for service beyond the call of duty, Mary Albanese, Adrienne Dines, and Nancy Fraser.
1
People ask me whose fault it was. Who caused the accident? Where did the blame lie—on reckless driving, blinding sunlight, a sharp curve in the road? Hidden in their questions is a deeper query. Did Jesse bring it on himself? Was he careless? Perhaps he rode his bike into the middle of the road. Perhaps he insulted God. Maybe that’s why he won’t be walking me down the aisle, they imply.
What people want to hear, I think, is that the accident was fate, or foolishness. The hit-and-run killed Isaac Sandoval outright. It left Jesse Blackburn broken on the hillside, struggling to reach his friend’s body. And people want me to tell them yes, it was the victims’ fault. Jesse should have done something different, should have looked over his shoulder or flossed his teeth every day. What they want me to say is no, of course it could never happen to them. They want reassurance, and I can’t give it to them.
When they ask me whose fault it was, I’ve always said: the driver’s. It was the fault of the man who sat behind the wheel of a satin-gray BMW, arcing up a narrow road into the foothills of Santa Barbara, with one hand on the steering wheel and the other caressing the hair of the woman whose head bobbed above his lap. It was the fault of the man getting the blow job. It was the fault of the guy who got away.
That’s what I always told people. Until now.
‘‘There’s going to be security,’’ Jesse said.
‘‘Don’t worry; I can handle it.’’
Jesse stared out the window of the car at the Santa Barbara Museum of Art across the street. Sunset was painting the white building orange. Guests were arriving, and their costumes glittered as they climbed the steps to the entrance. Jesse drummed his hands on the steering wheel.
‘‘You can’t hesitate,’’ he said. ‘‘Straight in, do it, get out. If there’s any trouble—’’
I put my hand on his. ‘‘I know how to crash a party.’’
He gave me a glance—blue eyes cool, mouth askew, the patented Blackburn Wry Look. ‘‘Evan, this isn’t a Brownie sing-along.’’
‘‘Trust me. It’s an art museum. The guards care about keeping the paintings inside, not about keeping people out.’’
‘‘Don’t count on that,’’ he said. ‘‘And your wig’s crooked.’’
I straightened it. ‘‘You just want to do this yourself. You’d love to stick it to Cal Diamond with all his colleagues looking on.’’
‘‘Absolutely.’’
But we both knew that Diamond would spot Jesse coming a mile away, even though he had on faded jeans and an old USA Swimming T-shirt, and didn’t look like a lawyer. With Jesse’s youth and good looks, the brown hair he hadn’t cut in months, and his hardware, Diamond couldn’t miss him. So the job was mine.
I struck a pose. ‘‘How do I look?’’
He gazed at my costume: frosted white lipstick, hoop earrings as big as grapefruit, the black wig rising on my head like a hair volcano. The sequined pink minidress came from a vintage clothing store, the white vinyl boots from my closet, relics of a year misspent on the high school drill team.
‘‘Perfect,’’ he said. ‘‘Very I Dream of Jeannie.’’
‘‘It’s supposed to be Diana Ross.’’
He eyed my Irish complexion skeptically.
‘‘Fine. Diana O’Ross," I said.
He handed me the summons and complaint, and held up a snapshot. It showed a man in his fifties, bald, with unruly eyebrows and snappish teeth.
I said, ‘‘He even looks like a swindler.’’
‘‘Yeah, and I hear that tonight he’ll look like Zorro. So watch out for his whip.’’ He flicked his finger against the snapshot. ‘‘And for his wife.’’
The photo showed Mari Vasquez Diamond standing next to her husband, looking much younger than him, all sinewy bronze limbs and long fingers curled around his arm. She had set her dogs loose on the last process server who approached their door.
‘‘Her Dobermans won’t be here tonight,’’ I said, getting out of the car. ‘‘I’ll serve him, Jesse.’’
I crossed the street. The lights of the city were coming on, a glittering spray below the green folds of the mountains. The sky was streaked with jet contrails flushing pink in the summer sunset. Ahead, guests were going into the museum. Bogart, Cleopatra, the pope.
Sashay, I told myself. Act as if you have an invitation to this benefit. Attitude is everything.
Cal Diamond was all attitude. He acted the business wizard, and investors shoveled money into his software company, Diamond Mindworks. He cooked the books, plundered the company pension plan, and built himself a Spanish-style hacienda fit for a conquistador. But Diamond’s life was about to come tumbling down, because his investors had hired Jesse’s law firm to sue him for fraud.
The problem was, Diamond had been evading service for weeks. Jesse was getting pissed off. And when he got pissed off, he got ruthless.
It was one of the things I loved about him.
He knew that Diamond wouldn’t miss this charity fund-raiser—his company was one of the high-tech firms sponsoring it. This was our best chance to hit him with the summons.
I climbed the steps toward the museum entrance. A woman with a clipboard stood at the door, checking names against the guest list. She wore tiny square eyeglasses and brown lipstick. When I approached, she assumed a knowing expression and pointed at me with her pen.
‘‘Let’s see. Jackie Kennedy?’’
‘‘Score half a point for the correct decade. Who’s in charge here?’’
Her pen hovered in the air.
‘‘Yoo-hoo,’’ I said. ‘‘Do you work for this museum?’’
Her mouth puckered. ‘‘Certainly.’’
‘‘Well, you’re about two minutes from disaster.’’ I pointed over my shoulder. ‘‘One of your guests is circling the block looking for a parking spot. He’s dressed as the Lone Ranger, and he’s hauling a horse trailer.’’
‘‘You can’t be—’’
‘‘Serious? Do you want to wait until he rides through the door into the Greek antiquities, shouting, ‘Hi-ho, Silver’?’’
She blinked, looking up the street, and said, ‘‘Wait here.’’
She scurried down the steps. I walked inside.
Two minutes: I figured that was all I had before she came after me. I breezed into the foyer, past a string quartet, and into a central gallery. Above the skylight a Gauguin sky unrolled, dense blue. People stood in clots, drinking and preening. It was a tech crowd, here to raise money for science and engineering scholarships. Most were baby boomers costumed in polyester and nostalgia. I saw Sonny and Cher, and Darth Vader. But I didn’t see Zorro.
I worked my way around the gallery
. Talk caromed off the walls. In my head I heard my dad’s voice. Thousands of dollars for law school and you’re serving a summons yourself? A waiter handed me a glass of chablis. You hated practicing, but love the dirty work. What are you thinking? I pushed through the chiffon-and-spandex forest.
And ran straight into Cal Diamond’s wife. Lady Doberman.
Her ruby necklace spelled out Mari, but could have read trophy bride. I guessed her to be about forty. She was as thin as a paper cut, wearing a strapless black evening gown and showcase breasts. Wow. What a geometry problem for the nerds in the room—calculate volume and density, accounting for the molecular mass of silicone. Her sable hair was sculpted high on her head. Her long fingers were coiled around a glass of red wine.
She was talking to a sandy-haired man, and I started to veer away, anxious to avoid her. But the man called to me.
‘‘Where ya going, Gidget?’’
He was slouching against a pillar, with an insouciance so cool that he must have practiced it before a mirror. His costume was a black turtleneck, houndstooth jacket, and tight jeans. He eyed me as though I were an hors d’oeuvre.
‘‘Surf’s up. Stick around,’’ he said.
Mari Diamond stood as straight as a scalpel, swirling her wineglass. ‘‘She’s not actually going for Gidget.’’ Chill gaze. ‘‘I hope.’’
I nudged past her. What a queen bee. She was ready to sting me, just for diverting a man’s attention from her. In my head I now heard Jesse’s voice, saying, Don’t, Delaney. Holster your tongue and back away from the bait.
‘‘After all,’’ she said, ‘‘Gidget was a teenager. Talk about missing the mark.’’
Okay, blow my attitude knob off the control panel, why don’t you?
I heard myself say, ‘‘You should know.’’
‘‘What?’’
I pictured Jesse slapping his hand against his forehead. I told my feet to move. I said, ‘‘You’re not exactly prom-queen material yourself.’’
She froze. ‘‘You did not just say that.’’
‘‘Sure I did. I’m too old to take cheap shots from snotty socialites. Excuse me.’’
‘‘Don’t you walk away.’’ She thrust out an arm, blocking my path. ‘‘What’s your name?’’
