Mission Canyon

by Meg Gardiner

  He crossed his arms. ‘‘I’ll have to ask you to state your business.’’

  ‘‘I want to speak to George Rudenski,’’ I said. ‘‘And yeah, Junior really chased me with a meat cleaver. So let me in before I give the gory details to the media gang over there.’’

  He let me in. When I approached the front desk, Amber waved.

  ‘‘Call Pops,’’ I said.

  She got on the phone. Her curls looked disheveled, and her mascara was caking. When she smiled at me, her eyes scuttled around like beetles. That cinched it. I knew my suspicions were on the money.

  I said, ‘‘Last night, when you called me . . .’’

  And her lip started quivering.

  ‘‘Junior told you to do it, didn’t he?’’

  ‘‘I didn’t mean to. I mean, I didn’t think—’’

  ‘‘That’s a nice new car you have out there, Amber.’’ I nodded toward the parking lot. ‘‘I saw it when I came in last time. It must be great to replace your bike.’’

  Her mouth quivered.

  I leaned over the desk, close to her face. ‘‘Kenny gave it to you, right? That’s how he paid you.’’

  Blink, blink. The phone rang but she didn’t answer it.

  ‘‘I can see how it looked like a good deal. You put a couple of pills in my drink at the bridal shower, and in return he bought you a new car.’’

  George’s secretary appeared in the lobby, calling my name. Ignoring Amber’s sniffling, I followed her down the hall. She knocked on his office door. He said, ‘‘Come,’’ and she melted away. I went in.

  George sat behind a desk the size of an M-1 tank. His white hair bristled and his suit had steak-knife creases, but he looked gray and deflated.

  ‘‘Sorry to butt in,’’ I said. ‘‘I promise, this is the last time I’ll pull my command-performance act. I’ll never bother you again.’’

  ‘‘Say your piece.’’

  ‘‘I know that you brought in Tim North and Jakarta Rivera.’’

  He stared at me from under bushy eyebrows. His gaze was opaque.

  ‘‘You asked them to get to the bottom of i-heist’s involvement with Mako. You knew something was rancid in the company, and you wanted it rooted out.’’

  He began lining up fountain pens on his desk, precisely parallel. They looked like a missile battery.

  ‘‘You wanted an investigation on the quiet. I understand that. You wanted to sever the links between the gang and Mako before they brought Mako down. If the FBI found out that your source code had been sold to a criminal gang, Mako people would go to prison. If they found out about the money laundering, they’d seize Mako’s assets. Either way, your company’s goose was cooked. But, George, bringing in a hit team? What the hell were you thinking?’’

  He aimed the pens. ‘‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t think outside the box.’’

  ‘‘Which box is that? The one holding Adam Sandoval’s body?’’

  Saying it, I felt a twist of pain. I forced myself not to blink. George looked away from me.

  ‘‘You chose well, George. Jax and Tim cleaned house for you. I-heist is gone, for good. You only had one bump in the road. You didn’t know that it was your son who was conspiring with them. Now your goose is cooked, and Mako’s, and Kenny’s. Burned to a crisp.’’

  ‘‘I have nothing to say to you.’’

  ‘‘But don’t you want to know that you got your money’s worth? They were terribly clever. They got me to do a lot of their snooping for them, and they’re remarkably personable, compared to my admittedly limited circle of contract-killer friends.’’

  ‘‘This is all speculation.’’

  ‘‘Jax opened my eyes in so many ways. Look here.’’

  Walking to his desk, I put one foot up on the edge. My knockoff boots weren’t as pricey as Jax’s Jimmy Choos, but the heel spike was just as sharp.

  ‘‘This heel can put your eye out. Bitchin’, huh?’’

  His face reddened all the way up into his hair. ‘‘You should go now.’’

  I drew my foot down. ‘‘Two more things. One, do you know who they were really working for?’’

  For the first time his reserve started to chip. I had caught him off guard.

  ‘‘The way I put it together, when you decided to bring in outside . . . security consultants? . . . you got in touch with your contacts in Washington. Some of those old boys in the photos that hang on the wall in your lobby. What, NSA, Defense Intelligence, CIA? Am I on the right track? And you asked them to recommend people with the skill set you were looking for.’’

  I could hear the air whistling in and out of his lungs.

  ‘‘And Tim and Jax contacted you, perhaps anonymously. You arranged to pay them through their account in, I’m guessing, Zurich, and they sent you untraceable progress reports. So my question is, were they working for you, or for the spooks at Langley, or both?’’

  The redness was leaching down his neck and under his collar.

  ‘‘Here’s the thing, George. Considering how you like to think outside the box, I figure I should watch my back. Because I know about this.’’

  ‘‘If you’re frightened of me, why are you laying all this out?’’

  ‘‘So you’ll know that I know how it works. Because there’s one other thing—Jax was watching my back, and she gave me her business card. I’m guessing that means whoever she’s working for was watching my back too, and still is. If I ever have the slightest bit of trouble, they’ll be on you like fleas on a dog. And I have to say, you don’t want to see Jax shoot. Believe me, the results aren’t pretty.’’

  I started for the door.

  ‘‘Good luck, George. If you need a lawyer, I know a good one.’’ I stopped and hit myself in the forehead. ‘‘Wait, what am I thinking? You can’t hire him. He’s going to be too busy suing your sorry ass into the ground.’’

  Coming out, I passed the front desk without looking at Amber. She clattered off her chair and came around, shoulders hunched, hands up, as though she were a leper in a passion play, beseeching me.

  ‘‘Please let me explain. He said it wouldn’t hurt you. I didn’t think—’’

  ‘‘Start thinking, Amber. Do it every day. It can get to be a habit.’’

  ‘‘He said—’’

  ‘‘He wanted me unconscious so he could wire my house with video bugs and program my phone to track me. He used it to spy on me. In my shower, Amber.’’

  She put a hand over her mouth.

  ‘‘Quit Mako. Get out of here,’’ I said.

  She was crying.

  ‘‘Right now,’’ I said. ‘‘Just tell them you’re going, for the sake of your immortal soul.’’

  I started to walk past her.

  ‘‘But I already did. Don’t hate me. I already gave my notice.’’

  ‘‘Great. Good luck getting a reference.’’

  ‘‘It’s okay; I have another job. I’m going to work for your cousin Taylor. Selling Countess Zara lingerie.’’

  Examination of that night’s news footage shows me coming out the door, laughing so hard I nearly fainted.

  36

  Adam’s funeral Mass was packed to the rafters with colleagues and grad students and former swimming teammates, big men crowded into the small, sunny church. Jesse gave the first reading, from the Book of Wisdom: ‘‘But the souls of the virtuous are in the hands of God, no torment shall ever touch them.’’ It was a sight that would have astonished Adam, left him shaking his head. Jesse Blackburn in a Catholic church, with the Lectionary open in his hands.

  ‘‘Their going looked like a disaster, their leaving us, like annihilation; but they are in peace.’’ His voice was strong, and he almost got there, until he read: ‘‘Those who are faithful will live with him in love; for grace and mercy await those he has chosen.’’

  It was beyond him: Adam, belief, his grief. His hands touched the words on the page, and he looked up at us. His eyes, afire with
tears, gave the eulogy.

  Later, we went with Adam’s uncle and cousins on a charter boat to scatter his ashes on the ocean. The shore was low on the horizon, the Pacific swelling blue in all directions. The ashes drifted away on the sea, surrounded by flowers, and sank into water glittering with light. I thought about Adam, his passion for the wonders of existence, his curious understanding that for light, time does not pass. He was with the light, I hoped, with the shine of forever, ageless and eternal.

  It was the next weekend when thunder woke me, an exotic rumble for a Santa Barbara morning. The breeze lifted the curtains and blew papers off my vanity. Smelling rain, I opened my eyes to see black clouds bunched outside. Lightning blanched the sky, and fat drops came falling. I got up to close the windows.

  Jesse pulled the quilt over his head. ‘‘I thought they passed an ordinance. No rain on Saturdays.’’

  The quilt was back, for good. Taylor hadn’t fought me for it. In fact, when she saw me coming up her walk she met me at the door and handed it—and my address book—to me without a word.

  I went to the living room to close more windows and grab the morning paper from the front step before it got soaked.

  The package was sitting next to it. It was a padded manila envelope several inches thick, addressed to me. I brought it in, set it on the kitchen counter, and stared at it. After a moment I ripped it open. Inside were clippings, reports, handwritten journals, memoranda. They went back two decades, and told the story—stories—of Jax and Tim and their adventures in the dark realm of espionage. They seemed to sting my hands.

  There was a note.

  Read up, and let us know your price. Come on; you know you want to.

  Outside, the thunder cracked and the clouds cut loose.

  I called to Jesse. ‘‘Hey, Blackburn, get out here. Have I got a rainy-day project for you.’’

  Read on for an exciting preview

  of Meg Gardiner’s brand-new thriller,

  THE DIRTY SECRETS CLUB

  Available wherever books are sold

  or at penguin.com

  Fire alarms sang through the skyscraper, piercing and relentless. Under the din people poured across the marble lobby toward the doors, dodging fallen ceiling plaster and broken glass. Outside, Montgomery Street crackled with the lights of emergency vehicles. A police officer fought upstream to get inside. The blonde was ten feet behind, struggling through the crowd.

  The man in the corner paced, head down, needing her to hurry.

  People rushed by him, jumpy. ‘‘Everything crashed off the bookshelves. I thought for sure it was the Big One.’’

  The man turned, shoulders shifting. The Big One? Hardly. This earthquake had just been San Francisco’s regular kick in the butt. But it was bad enough. On the street, steam geysered from manholes. And he could smell gas. Pipes had ruptured under the building. The quake was Hell saying, Don’t forget I’m down here—you fall, I’m waiting for you.

  He checked his watch. Come on, girl, faster. They had ten minutes before this building shut down.

  A fire captain glanced at him. He was tall and young and moved like the athlete he was, but nothing clicked in the fire captain’s eyes, no suspicion, no Is that who I think it is? Out of uniform he looked ordinary, a plain vanilla all-American.

  The blonde neared the doors. She stood out from the crowd, platinum sleek, hair cinched into a tight French twist, body cinched into a tighter black suit. A cop stuck out an arm like he was going to clothesline her. She flashed an ID and slid around him.

  He smiled. Right under their noses.

  She pushed through the doors and walked up, giving him a hard blue stare. ‘‘Here? Now?’’

  ‘‘It’s the ultimate test. Secrets are hardest to keep in broad daylight.’’

  ‘‘I smell gas, and that steam pipe sounds like a volcano erupting. If a valve blows and causes a spark—’’

  ‘‘You dared me. Do it in public, and get proof.’’ He wiped his palms on his jeans. ‘‘This is as public as it gets. You’ll supply my proof.’’

  Her hands clenched, but her eyes shone. ‘‘Where?’’

  His heart beat faster. ‘‘Top floor. My lawyer’s office.’’

  Upstairs, they strode out of the express elevator to find the law firm abandoned. The fire alarm was shrieking. At the receptionist’s desk, a computer was streaming a television news feed.

  ‘‘. . . minor damage, but we’re getting reports of a ruptured gas line in the financial district . . .’’

  The blonde looked around. ‘‘Security cameras?’’

  ‘‘Only in the stairwells. It’s bad business for a law firm to videotape its clients.’’

  She nodded at a wall of windows. The October sunset was fading to dusk, but downtown was ablaze with light. ‘‘You plan to do this stunt against the glass?’’

  He crossed the lobby. ‘‘This way. The building’s going to shut down in’’—he looked at a red digital clock on the wall—‘‘six minutes.’’

  ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘Emergency procedure. If there’s a gas leak the building evacuates; they shut down the elevators and seal the fire doors. We have to be out by then.’’

  ‘‘You’re joking.’’

  The wall clock counted down to 5:59. He started a timer on his watch.

  ‘‘Yeah. I was meeting with my lawyers when the quake hit. It limits damage from any gas explosion.’’ He pulled her toward a hallway. ‘‘I can’t believe you’re scared of getting caught with me. Not Hardgirl.’’

  ‘‘What part of ‘secret’ do you not understand?’’

  ‘‘If we’re caught, they’ll ask what we’re doing here, not what we’re hiding in our pasts.’’

  ‘‘Fair point.’’ She hurried alongside him, eyes bright. ‘‘Were you waiting for an earthquake before you did this?’’

  Good guess—this was the third minor quake in the last month. ‘‘I got lucky. I’ve been looking for the perfect opportunity for weeks. Chaos, downtown—it was karma. I figured seize the day.’’

  He rounded a corner. A glass-fronted display case along the wall had cracked, spilling sports memorabilia onto the floor.

  She rushed past. ‘‘Is that a Joe Montana jersey?’’

  His stopwatch beeped. ‘‘Five minutes.’’

  He opened a mahogany door. Across a conference room the red embers of sunset caught them in the eyes. The hills of San Francisco rose in front of them, electric with light and packed to the rafters like a stadium.

  He shrugged off his coat, took a camera from the pocket and handed it to her. ‘‘When I tell you, point and click.’’

  He crossed the room and opened the doors to a roof-top terrace. Kicking off his shoes, he strode outside.

  ‘‘You complained I was using the club as a confessional. You told me I was seeking expiation for my sins, but said you couldn’t give me absolution,’’ he said.

  Deep below them, the building groaned. She walked outside, breathing hard.

  ‘‘Damn, Scott, this is dangerous—’’

  ‘‘Your dare was—and I quote—for me ‘to offer a public display of penitence, and for Christ’s sake, get proof.’ ’’

  He pulled his polo shirt over his head. Her gaze seared its way down his chest.

  Now, he thought. Before his courage and exhilaration evaporated. He unzipped and dropped his jeans.

  She gaped.

  He backed toward the waist-high brick railing at the edge of the terrace. ‘‘Turn on the camera.’’

  ‘‘You came commando-style to a meeting with your lawyers?’’

  Naked, he climbed onto the brick ledge and stood up, facing her. Her lips parted. Thrilled to his fingertips, he turned to face Montgomery Street.

  A salt breeze licked his bare skin. Two hundred feet below, fire and police lights flickered through steam boiling from the ruptured pipe, turning the scene an eerie red.

  He spread his arms. ‘‘Shoot.’’

  ‘You have
got to be kidding me.’’

  ‘Take the photo. Hurry.’’

  ‘‘That’s not penitent.’’

  He glanced over his shoulder. She was shaking her head.

  ‘‘Bad? You tattooed Bad on your tailbone?’’

  His watch beeped. ‘‘Four minutes. Do it.’’

  ‘‘You’re a badass?’’ She put her fists on her hips. ‘‘You get all torn up about a nasty thing you did in college, and want to unload it on us—fine. But you can’t tattoo some preening jock statement on your butt and call it repentance. That’s not remorse. Hell, it’s not even close to being dirty.’’

  Frowning, she stormed inside.

  He turned around. ‘‘Hey!’’

  Was she leaving? No, everything depended on her getting the photo. . . .

  She ran back out, holding a piece of sports memorabilia from the display case. It was a jockey’s riding crop. He swallowed.

  She whipped it against a potted plant with a wicked crack. ‘‘Somebody needs to take you down a notch.’’

  He nearly whimpered. She wanted points, too. This was even better.

  Snapping the crop against her thigh, she crossed the terrace. Evaluating the ledge, she unzipped her ass-hugging skirt, wriggled it down, and stepped out of it.

  ‘‘It’s time to make your act of contrition,’’ she said.

  In the tight-fitting black jacket, she looked martial. The stilettos could have put out his eyes. The black stockings ran all the way to the tops of her thighs. All the way to—

  ‘‘What’s that garter belt made from?’’

  ‘‘Iguana hide.’’

  ‘Jesus, help me.’’

  ‘‘I have a drawerful. I got them in the divorce.’’ She held out her hand. ‘‘Don’t let me fall.’’

  ‘‘I won’t. I have perfect balance.’’ He felt crazed and desperate and God, he needed to get her up here, now. ‘‘I get paid four million dollars a year to catch things and never let them drop.’’

  A wisp of her blond hair had escaped the perfect ’do. It softened her. He wanted her to put it back in place. He wanted her to put on leather gloves and maybe an eye patch. He pulled her up on the ledge beside him.