by Meg Gardiner
Tim said, ‘‘It’s tricky. Exceedingly.’’ His face, so rough and so oddly winning, became reflective. ‘‘Ultimately, verification would come only from an adversary, Evan. The players know each other. You’d have to gain access to an opponent’s files and find a name.’’
‘‘Well,’’ Jax said, ‘‘you might also be able to go to a third-party country, someplace on the chessboard. Their intelligence services might know the players.’’
‘‘Adversary,’’ Tim insisted. ‘‘You’d need to go to a broken country and give them the access code. Which is money. Then you might get the proof you’re after.’’
We walked. That stink of the real was wafting in the air around me.
I said, ‘‘And if I did believe you, what would your story be?’’
Tim said, ‘‘Army sniper school, Secret Intelligence Service, flash cars, knives drawn in the souk.’’
‘‘You talked about private espionage. Were you a mercenary? ’’ I said.
‘‘No.’’
‘‘Industrial espionage?’’
‘‘Hardly.’’
And with that, he veered into a clothing store. Jax and I followed. Clothes were stacked in earth-toned piles around a giant cactus. Tim chose a pair of brown drawstring pants and held them up to his waist.
Jax said, ‘‘Put those down before somebody sees you.’’
He gave her a cutting look. She stepped close to him, and they muttered at each other. Great, just what I didn’t need: spatting spies. I turned away, picking up a beige shirt with an iguana stitched on it.
Jax saw me holding it. ‘‘Uh-uh. Get your hands off that.’’
‘‘Not my color?’’
‘‘These clothes are a crime. Shapeless and clinging, guaranteed to make you look like a lumpy pillow.’’ She guided me to the door. ‘‘I swear, Santa Barbara is a style disaster zone.’’
‘‘Hey, we’re casual here,’’ I said.
‘‘So is an unmade bed, but I wouldn’t wear it out to lunch.’’ She led me outside. ‘‘You need fashion reeducation. Repeat after me, slowly: Prada.’’
I looked over my shoulder. ‘‘Where’s Tim?’’
‘‘He’ll catch up.’’
I pursed my lips. ‘‘If you two bicker over something as insubstantial as clothing, how will we get through a manuscript?’’
‘‘We’re not bickering; we’re tempestuous.’’
We headed into Saks Fifth Avenue, where the air was cooled to the temperature of crisp French Chablis. She propped her sunglasses atop her head.
‘‘Let me tell you about myself. Father’s from Texas, mother’s a Cuban refugee. I have a linguistics degree and an ability to lie with a fabulous smile. Cubano Spanish accent that went down well in certain South American circles.’’
I said, ‘‘Why’d you become a spy?’’
‘‘The shrinks at Langley had a theory. As a child, I witnessed the primal scene.’’
She headed for the belts and scarves, her fingers brushing over silk and leather.
‘‘You know, peering through a crack in the bedroom door at Mom and Dad. Jax Rivera, spy tot.’’
‘‘Why’d you quit?’’ I said.
‘‘One day I found myself out on a limb in Medellín. I was having an affair with an asset, and he betrayed me.’’
She draped a scarf over my shoulder and leaned back to assess the look.
I said, ‘‘What happened?’’
‘‘I killed him.’’
I couldn’t help it; I just stared at her.
She said, ‘‘He was going to shop me to narco-traffickers. It was him or me.’’
‘‘You make it sound easy.’’
‘‘No, it sent me off the deep end. Thank God I met Tim, or I might have hanged myself.’’ She took the scarf from my shoulders. ‘‘You have potential. Look at you, this wonderful bone structure and lean figure. I should take you to Milan.’’
She touched my hair. I brushed her hand away.
I said, ‘‘And what do you plan to title your memoirs, Kick-Ass in Versace?’’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘‘Catchy.’’
She walked on, looking at pashminas. They hung on the wall, blue, gold, and purple, the colors lush behind her brown face.
‘‘Damn.’’ My head pounded. ‘‘Damn, stop. Jax, what did you do? Shoot him?’’
‘‘Gave him a joint laced with heroin, and when he fell asleep put a nine-millimeter round through his temple. He never felt a thing. No pain, no remorse.’’
I felt as if a golf ball had lodged in my throat. ‘‘Who was he?’’
‘‘You don’t want to know.’’ She looked past my shoulder. ‘‘And here’s Tim.’’
He walked up, cracking his knuckles, looking at Jax. ‘‘You told her?’’
‘‘Some.’’
He glanced at me. ‘‘You seem displeased.’’
‘‘You could say so.’’
He nodded toward the escalator and I followed him on, heading up. Jax stayed with the pashminas. He watched her, his expression unreadable.
He said, ‘‘I need to explain something to you.’’
‘‘Oh, I think you need to explain a lot of things.’’
‘‘Self-defense can take many forms.’’
‘‘So it can. But to justify killing in self-defense, you have to be in imminent danger. You don’t drug a man unconscious and then put a barrel to his head.’’
‘‘Are you angry that she killed him, or that she slept with him?’’
‘‘Excuse me?’’
We got off the escalator in the women’s department. He said, ‘‘You want proof?’’ He grabbed a hideous sequined jacket off a rack, handed it to me, and pointed across the store. ‘‘Go admire yourself in the mirror over there.’’
‘‘Tim, even Michael Jackson would find this too garish.’’
‘‘Humor me.’’
Though his face was relaxed, his eyes were sharp. I swallowed the snippy remark, headed to the mirror, and held the jacket up to my chest. The sequins were blinding. In the mirror, I watched Tim walk toward the men’s room.
A moment later, I saw a woman get off the escalator. She was young, wiry, wearing gold hoop earrings and a red bandanna over her hair like a do-rag. She followed Tim. Right behind her came Jax, hands full of accessories.
From that point, it was quick. Tim went in the men’s room. Bandanna stopped outside the door. Jax came up behind her, pushed her inside, and shut the door behind her.
I tossed the jacket aside. The bathroom door was locked. I banged on it, hissing, ‘‘Open up,’’ and the lock flipped. Jax thrust her arm through the door and pulled me inside, slamming and locking it again. I opened my mouth and she held up a finger, signaling silence.
The men’s room was splendid. There were flowers on the counter, and Chopin piped in through the speakers, and a shine on the floor, where Bandanna lay facedown, hog-tied.
Jax pointed at the scarf gagging the young woman’s mouth, and the belts cinching her hands and feet.
‘‘Hermès. Gucci. Don’t dis my labels, hon.’’
Tim’s foot was planted between Bandanna’s shoulders. He was going through her wallet. She squirmed on the floor, trying to kick him.
Jax gave her a harsh look. ‘‘Chill. You do not want me to start in on you with a pair of Jimmy Choo stilettos.’’
I said, ‘‘What the hell are you doing?’’
Tim said, ‘‘I saw her down the street, near that cactus-and -drawstring-trousers shop. Watched her in the reflection off the windows, keeping pace with us.’’
I felt numb. I got it now. Jax and Tim hadn’t been arguing—Tim had dropped back behind this woman to check her out.
I said, ‘‘She was following you?’’
Tim looked up. ‘‘No. She was following you.’’
I felt my face heating.
He found her driver’s license. ‘‘Cherry Lopez. Know her?’’
Jax pulled off the bandanna. I saw the cropped
black hair and the tattoo climbing up her neck.
I said, ‘‘Yes. She’s i-heist. And I think she stole my wallet and cell phone.’’
Lopez bucked, trying to get out from under Tim’s shoe. He reached down with both hands, yanked her jean jacket off her shoulders, and wrestled a black club from inside it. He held it up.
‘‘Shock baton. Amazingly unpleasant to be on the receiving end of one of these.’’
I felt a chill, like ragged fingernails pulling at my skin. Tim dropped down, put his knee on Lopez’s back, and rubbed the tip of the baton along her cheek.
‘‘Tell me, pet. What were you planning to do with this?’’
She squirmed, moaning through the gag, trying to shrink from the baton.
‘‘Self-defense begins with awareness of the threat against you.’’ Tim rested the baton on Lopez’s ear. ‘‘Then you need the bottle to actually defend yourself.
You mustn’t shrink from disabling your attacker. Pity will get you hurt.’’
The creepy fingernail feeling kept pulling at my skin. And beneath that, anger.
‘‘That’s enough,’’ I said.
His face was harder than a board. ‘‘That’s not even a start.’’
He removed the scarf from her mouth.
She spit at him. ‘‘Get away from me, you poncy faggot.’’
‘‘My, somebody’s been watching British telly,’’ he said.
‘‘You’re going to regret this. All of you,’’ she said.
I squatted down, out of spitting range. ‘‘I saw you at Kenny Rudenski’s house.’’
She twisted to look at me. Her gothic eye makeup matched the black dye in her hair. ‘‘I’m his au pair.’’
I nodded. ‘‘Sure. Babysitting what, his Dale Earnhardt helmet?’’
‘‘Woman, you are a bucket of extra-bitchy recipe, aren’t you?’’
‘‘Why were you following me?’’
She spit. It globbed on the gleaming tile floor. ‘‘I’ll hurt you worst.’’
Tim took her hand in his and bent her thumb back. Her face twisted, and she started to moan. As soon as she opened her mouth he jammed the gag back in it.
I said, ‘‘She didn’t attack me. Don’t hurt her.’’
Weariness crossed his face. ‘‘Jax, have a word with Evan, won’t you?’’
Jax nodded. ‘‘Come on.’’
She led me to the door. A burglar’s tool was stuck in the lock. Jax turned it and we went out, heading for the escalator.
‘‘Tim will find out why she was following you,’’ she said.
‘‘What’s he going to do to her?’’
‘‘He won’t let her come after you with that shock baton; that’s for certain.’’
‘‘Is this what he meant by private work? Roughing people up?’’
‘‘Stop being pissy.’’
We jogged down the escalator, marched through the store and outside.
She said, ‘‘Tim will disable the threat against you, nothing more. Because he’s not on the job anymore.’’
‘‘Do tell me, Jax. What is this job you keep referring to?’’
‘‘Contract assassination.’’
20
Driving home, I debriefed myself. Mission accomplished? No, there were unexpected difficulties. Such as? A purse snatcher with a shock baton. Prospective clients who took cash to kill people. Cash? Okay, maybe a cashier’s check. Did you find out anything about why Jesse’s in such a mess? No. Did you sign a contract to write the Norths’ memoirs? Contract is not a word I want to use right now.
When I stopped for a light the driver next to me, a cholo in a low-rider Chevy, heard me dishing it out to myself. He locked his doors.
Did you learn one single thing that could help you? Yeah, watch your back. What are you going to do now?
I don’t know.
When I swung to the curb in front of my house a man was standing at the garden gate. Holding that clipboard, he looked like an insurance salesman. Excellent, sign me up for a big fat life insurance policy. He walked toward me.
‘‘Evan Delaney?’’ he said. I nodded. ‘‘This is for you.’’
He handed me a document. I saw SUPERIOR COURT OF THE STATE OF CALIFORNIA and, next to DEFENDANT, my name. Mari Vasquez Diamond had followed through on her threat. She was suing me, Jesse, and Sanchez Marks for intentional infliction of emotional distress.
The phone was ringing when I opened my front door. I let the machine get it. Staring at the complaint, I kicked off my shoes, a bad idea because slip-ons gain velocity like rocket-propelled grenades. One flew onto the dining table and hit the wedding mound. Papers spewed. Jax Rivera’s voice came on the machine.
‘‘Evan, it’s important that we continue our conversation. Tim learned some things you need to know.’’
I didn’t move.
‘‘You know how to reach me,’’ she said. ‘‘Be smart. Call.’’
In the depths of my head, ‘‘Wipeout’’ was playing. I had paddled out too far and now the big ones were rolling down on top of me.
I stared at the complaint. ‘‘Intentional Infliction of Emotional Distress.’’ I read: ‘‘. . . that under the direction of defendant Blackburn, defendant Delaney subjected Mrs. Diamond to extreme abuse intended to cause severe distress. In particular: that in the presence of Mrs. Diamond’s party guests, Delaney did shockingly call her ‘old,’ ‘cheap,’ and a ‘snotty socialite. . . .’ ’’
She was going for the hat trick: petty, stupid, and inaccurate. Who, I wondered, was inane enough to file this lawsuit on her behalf? I checked the first page.
I picked up the phone and slammed it down again. I dug my shoe out from under the wedding pile and headed out the door. To Harley Dawson’s law firm.
Harley walked into the lobby at the law firm. In the dove gray suit, with her silver hair shining in the afternoon sun, she looked satiny. She gave me a glossy stare.
She said, ‘‘Uh-oh. You look like you’ve been drinking gasoline.’’
I waved the complaint. ‘‘Since when does this firm take on frivolous lawsuits?’’
‘‘What are you talking about?’’
I flipped to page three. ‘‘ ‘Knowing that her actions would cause emotional distress, Delaney did attempt to serve legal documents on Calvin Diamond in full view of Mrs. Diamond . . .’ This is nonactionable. It’s preposterous.’’
‘‘Tone it down,’’ she said, glancing at the receptionist. ‘‘I don’t know anything about this.’’
‘‘ ‘Said attempted service of legal documents was committed in a shocking manner; to wit—’ ’’ I looked up. ‘‘ ‘To wit’? What is this, Twelfth Night?’’
‘‘Enough.’’
‘‘Like hell. I’m just the tip of the iceberg. Wait till Jesse shows up with Lavonne Marks.’’
‘‘Whoop-de-doo, get out the party hats.’’ She put a hand on my back and walked me to the elevator. ‘‘Let’s go get coffee.’’
I shrugged her off. ‘‘Why do people keep trying to hustle me out of places?’’
‘‘Maybe because you’re acting like a human air raid siren.’’
The elevator came, and we got on.
‘‘When did your firm start representing Mari Vasquez Diamond?’’ I said.
‘‘None of your business.’’ She watched the numbers go down.
I said, ‘‘Who referred her, Kenny Rudenski?’’ Her mouth pursed, and I knew I’d guessed right. ‘‘What is this thing you have with Kenny? He’s bad news, Harley. Seriously bad. You should cut yourself off from him.’’
‘‘I keep telling you, he’s—’’
‘‘Yeah. Misunderstood. He’s really a sweetheart. You sound like a teenage girl with a crush on him.’’
Her eyes bruised and her face pinched. The elevator opened and we headed outside. She wasn’t looking at me. I knew I’d pushed too hard.
‘‘Okay, I take that back,’’ I said. ‘‘But what about the lawsuit?’’
/> She held up her hands, looking brittle. ‘‘Obviously this action shouldn’t have been filed. The person who did it is a junior associate. I don’t know how it happened, but it shouldn’t have . . .’’ Her voice trailed off.
‘‘Shouldn’t have gone this far? No kidding. Sounds like you need to exercise better supervision over your attorneys. ’’
‘‘My God, will you just back off? You’re like a monkey hissing on my shoulder. I’ll deal with it.’’
‘‘Harley, what’s wrong with you?’’
She laughed. It was a shrill sound. ‘‘Where shall I start?’’
‘‘Is it to do with Kenny?’’
‘‘No, it’s not Kenny. It’s Cassie.’’ She pushed her hair off her face. ‘‘We’re breaking up.’’ She sighed. ‘‘My life’s doing a slow turn on the rotisserie right now. But don’t worry; I’ll sort this thing out with Mrs. Diamond. And I’ll talk to Lavonne Marks. We’ll be professional about it tonight. No catfighting over the Jell-O molds.’’
‘‘What?’’
‘‘The bridal shower.’’ Then she shut her eyes. ‘‘Damn, it’s a surprise, isn’t it.’’
‘‘Not anymore.’’
Four hours to the deadline and I had accomplished nothing except to learn how dismally ignorant I was of the dangers surrounding me. I hadn’t been able to help Jesse one bit. I ended up at his office, telling him about the encounter with Jax and Tim and Cherry Lopez. Behind him, outside the window, the mountains loomed blue-green in the sun.
‘‘Retired assassins. What the hell does that mean?’’ he said. ‘‘These people are screwing with you, Ev. Giving you a major mind job.’’
‘‘You don’t think they’re for real?’’
‘‘This ghostwriting thing isn’t for real. They don’t actually expect you to write a book that violates U.S. and U.K. national security laws, and confesses to contract killings. That’s nuts.’’
I jammed my hands in my back pockets.
‘‘Whatever they want from you, it isn’t your turn of phrase.’’
‘‘I don’t think they’re faking. They’re not making this up,’’ I said.
‘‘I don’t think so either. Which leaves two possibilities. One, they really did stop an attack on you this afternoon. Or two, it was a setup and they were in on the whole thing with this Cherry Lopez.’’
