by Lowe, Shelia
“Dammit, Joel, why are you siding with them? I don’t believe she had anything to do with this . . . this . . .”
The temperature dropped a few more degrees.
“You’d better open your eyes and stop seeing that kid as some poor, wounded creature. She’s got big problems. Bigger than you can help her with. Let it go.”
Claudia picked up a worry ball from her desk and began squeezing it. “I know she has problems, but I don’t believe she’s violent. The only times she’s taken physical action was to defend herself and to defend me. I just don’t buy it.”
“So now you’re a psychologist?”
Claudia’s temper flared. “I may not have my doctorate, but I understand human behavior just fine. Handwriting doesn’t lie, Joel, and she doesn’t have the potential for that kind of behavior. In the news they said that Paige was strangled with a belt, for God’s sake—a belt. Annabelle doesn’t have that kind of strength, and I don’t believe she’d do that even if she could.”
“You’d be surprised at what people can do—even kids—in a desperate situation,” Jovanic said. “These days, kids kill all the time. Hell, I’m not saying she meant it to happen. Maybe she set it up with some of her gangbanger friends—they’d snatch Paige, hold her for a couple of days and get everyone good and scared—get media attention, some money, whatever. But something went wrong. She couldn’t control the situation anymore, or Paige tried to escape, or . . . Look, Claudia, I gotta go. Alex needs me. Just drop it, okay?”
I need you, dammit! she thought as she said a frosty good-bye. There was a certain irony in their exchange, she realized. He had reached out to her the night before and she’d rejected him by not answering his calls. Now she needed him, but he was forced to choose Alex. She replaced the phone in its base, unsettled and resentful, feeling isolated and alone in her support of Annabelle.
Chapter 23
The drive along the busy Pacific Coast Highway from Playa del Reina to Dominic Giordano’s Point Dume home in Malibu took close to an hour. Juan dodged and wove through traffic, bullying smaller vehicles with the big Hummer. He kept glancing at the dashboard clock, nervous about the reception he would get from his boss for taking too long.
“You married, Juan?” Claudia asked, trying to distract him.
He shook his head. “Nah, but I got me a real nice girlfriend. We been talking about it.”
“Want me to look at her handwriting? Tell you if she’s a secret ax murderer?”
“You can tell stuff like that?”
“Not really. Handwriting can’t predict what someone’s going to do; it just shows potential for behavior.” She smiled. “I’m sure your girlfriend will keep the ax in the toolshed.”
“Gee thanks, Ms. Rose, now I feel much better.”
They drove past the Country Mart at Cross Creek, with its low-key chic and trendy shops. Here, where a greater number of celebrities lived than in any other town in the country, including Beverly Hills, the views of the coastline seemed even more impossibly beautiful than the one Claudia saw from her own deck every day.
When he’d said that the media had the place surrounded, Juan had not exaggerated the situation. As they rounded the corner onto the private road leading to the Giordano house, Claudia could see that the estate was under siege.
Television trucks on stakeout ringed the ten-foot walls surrounding the property. Cameramen milled on the street, conferring with their producers, minicams ready for action.
They drove past Michelle Gillette, the reporter who had broken the news of Paige and Annabelle’s disappearance, primping in a TV monitor. Claudia surmised she was preparing for the next important update: Who killed the headmistress? And Where is the missing student? Special report, coming up next. Don’t miss it!
A security camera mounted on top of the wall panned its electronic eye over them as Juan cruised up to the gates. Taking advantage of the slowdown, the reporters rushed the car.
“Has Mr. Giordano’s daughter been found?”
“Anything new on the Sorensen murder?”
A reporter from Channel Four, a slight blond guy in a Windbreaker, rapped on the tinted window and shouted, “Is Mr. Giordano inside?”
Juan hit the brakes to avoid slamming into him.
“Are they crazy?” Claudia cried out.
“I think so, Ms. Rose. Don’t even look at them.”
The immense iron gates swung inward and the reporters fell away as the Hummer picked up speed and plowed through. Claudia looked straight ahead, refusing to make eye contact. Let them wonder who she was, if they could see her through the tinted glass. God knew, they were trying.
Behind them, the gates closed with a satisfying clang. They bumped along a dirt road that took them up a gentle incline for about a half mile before the house came into view: a sweeping lawn, blue-gray slate roof, a magenta thicket of bougainvillea caressing shell-pink stucco. In front was a one-story section with rounded walls. The rear section rose two levels. A grove of avocado trees fringed one side of the house, a rose garden the other.
They were high enough on the hill to afford a clear view of the ocean across the Coast Highway. From here, the surfers sitting on their boards waiting for a wave were nothing more than dots in the water.
It would have been on that private stretch of beach where Annabelle had made her suicide attempt a few months ago.
The thought of Annabelle made her stomach flip-flop. Every day that passed reduced the chances that she would be found alive.
They stopped in front of a four-car garage whose open doors revealed a Lexus, a limo, and a magnificent restored Stutz Bearcat. Rich man’s toys.
In the circular driveway was a Mercedes. As Juan cut the engine the front door to the house opened. A man came out and slammed the door. He was short and beefy, a fireplug in a black suit. Even from this distance, Claudia could see the scowl on his face. He strode along the path toward his car with rapid, angry steps.
“Hold up a second, Ms. Rose,” Juan said, urgency in his voice. “Don’t get out yet.” It was only after the man had driven away, kicking up gravel, that the chauffeur hurried around to open Claudia’s door.
“Go on up,” he said. “I’ll be right here when you’re ready to leave.”
I’m ready now, she thought, climbing out into the cool, still morning. The birds were noisy in the trees. Movement caught the corner of her eye and a young deer appeared, staring at her for a moment, its nose quivering before bounding off across the lawn.
For some reason, the sight of the deer seemed to bring the world back into balance again. Claudia smiled. “Thanks, Juan. This shouldn’t take long.”
“Good luck, Ms. Rose.” He touched the bill of his chauffeur’s hat in a salute.
Good luck? Was she going need it, dealing with Dominic Giordano?
Dwarf lemon trees lined the path to the front door, their branches heavy with fruit, perfuming the air with citrus. The door opened and a woman as brown and wrinkled as a walnut came out, wearing a maid’s uniform. She gave Claudia a broad, welcoming smile and nodded at her. “Good morning, Miz Rose. Come on in. Mr. G’s waitin’ for you on the terrace.”
Claudia followed her into a room straight out of Architectural Digest. It was filled with light and space; the limestone floors and huge skylights brought the outdoors inside. At close to noon, sky and clouds poured in. She could imagine looking up at the stars at midnight, diamonds on black velvet.
The furniture was sparse: a celadon pot of bromeliads on a chunky spruce table, an oversize khaki sofa and chairs that had been designed for comfort, sisal rugs. Understated Asian motif artwork. At the center of the room, the branches of a large ficus stretched toward the high-beamed ceiling like Jack’s bean stalk. The splashing of a waterfall completed a picture that spoke of money and power, plenty of it.
Anyone could hire a decorator and create a beautiful environment, but they couldn’t mask the heavy energy that infused the place.
Claudia followed the m
aid past a tiled bar that overlooked the beach through floor-to-ceiling windows. They exited through French doors to a terrace where Dominic Giordano was seated at a table, his back to the door. He spoke without turning around, sounding peevish. “What took you so long? Sit down.”
Claudia crossed the terrace and rounded the table. “I’m not your employee, Mr. Giordano. I don’t have to account to you for my time.”
Early in the morning in his own backyard—if that’s what you called the rolling lawns with tennis courts and a swimming pool in the distance—the silver-streaked hair was as meticulously styled as the evening she’d met him in his limousine. A blinding white Ralph Lauren polo shirt and tennis shorts reflected off his deep tan.
When Claudia came around the table she saw with a jolt of shock that Giordano’s left leg was a steel prosthesis attached above the knee. The artificial limb had been hidden beneath his trousers when they’d met in his limo. She pulled out a chair and sat down opposite him.
“So why am I here, Mr. Giordano?”
He gave her a look of cynical amusement. “You want to ask about my leg, don’t you?”
A slight flush of embarrassment colored her cheeks. “Do you want me to ask?”
“I figure you gotta be curious, right? Here’s this rich guy who’s got all the shit anyone could ever want, and he’s a gimp. You’re wondering. Let’s get it out of the way.”
Claudia leveled a glance at him. “I thought you wanted to talk about Annabelle, but if you want to tell me what happened to your leg, go right ahead.”
“Whoa!” he said, a hint of admiration. “You’re one cool bitch.”
She shot him a silent look of contempt at his choice of words and waited for his story.
“It happened surfing,” he said, and she could tell that he enjoyed having a captive audience. “I’ve surfed some of the best beaches in the world—Hawaii, Australia, you name it. I fucking lived in the water.” He pushed back his chair and stood up smoothly with practiced ease, beckoning Claudia to follow. “Come with me. I want you to see something.”
He walked without any discernible limp toward an area enclosed by a wall about fifty yards from the terrace.
Feeling uneasy, Claudia crossed the lawn with him, wondering why he chose to display such an obvious prosthesis, rather than a realistic-looking limb. From what she knew of him, it was probably intended to make others uncomfortable.
Dominic Giordano unlocked a pair of riveted steel doors and led her through to an enormous inground tank. Her stomach churned with a sick premonition as she peered into the water.
The flat gray blade of a dorsal fin sliced the surface, moving in lazy circles. Claudia turned to Giordano, who was closely observing her reaction. “Why are you showing me this?” she asked, slightly breathless. Jaws had never been her favorite movie.
“He took my freedom,” Giordano said. “I took his.”
“You lost your leg to a shark?”
“Yeah, he was a big mutha—six-footer. Bit my board in half, got my leg with it.”
Claudia’s eyes widened in horror. She took a step back from the water. “My God, that’s horrible. How did you get away?”
“Hammered his goddamn nose with my fist until he let go. Made it to shore with one leg. He had my other one for lunch.”
The thought made her stomach curl. “So you captured another shark, for what, revenge?”
“You got it.”
“What good did that do?”
He gave her a smile that was halfway between a leer and a grimace. “Shows the world that nobody fucks with Dominic Giordano and gets away with it.” Giordano grinned at her and went over to a large barrel standing on the pool deck. He lifted the lid, reached inside, and hauled out a hunk of raw meat dripping with blood and tossed it into the pool.
With stunning speed the shark rose out of the water, its powerful jaws spread wide. The razor-edged teeth clamped into the flesh. A split second later only a red stain remained in the water.
“What did you just feed it?” Claudia asked, afraid of the answer.
Giordano grabbed another hunk of meat from the barrel and held it up so she could see the sleek black pelt before he tossed it to the shark. “Baby seal.”
“I’m sorry I asked,” she said, resolving to find out which organization protected seals and report him.
“They hang out down on the rocks in the cove,” he said, pointing toward the beach. “Just club one a couple of times and ecco, my shark has dinner.”
“Stop it,” she broke in angrily. “I don’t want to know.”
Giordano took a folded cloth from the top of a pile of damask napkins on a small table beside the barrel and wiped the seal blood from his hands, observing her distress with amusement.
Claudia met his gaze with a stony glare. “What’s your point, Mr. Giordano?”
“Claudia, prego, call me Dominic,” he said in an ingratiating tone. “Aren’t we friends?”
“No,” she snapped. “We are not friends. I want to know why you’re showing me this.”
“I want to impress you, Claudia,” he said in a voice as smooth as silk.
“Well, this sure as hell won’t do it.”
He reached out suddenly and stroked her bare arm. The fine hairs rose and her breath caught in surprise. Then she got ahold of herself. She wasn’t a teen actress or a young nanny in his employ, or Diana Sorensen, who apparently had fallen under his spell. Claudia knew what he was capable of, but she wasn’t beholden to him. He had no power over her like he did the shark. She swung around and started back to the terrace.
“Hey,” he called after her with a mocking laugh. “You gonna leave a poor crip to fend for himself?”
She spun back to face him. “You’re no cripple.”
“You got that right,” he admitted with a great deal of pride. He lengthened his stride to catch up with her. “By the way, I still surf. No fucking shark is gonna take that away from me.”
Giordano walked beside her in silence for a dozen paces; then he said, “Listen, Claudia, I know you’re worried about the kid—my sources tell me the two of you were pretty tight. I need to find her, too, before the cops do. You can help Annabelle by telling me how you came to find the Sorensen woman’s body.”
Claudia narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “How’s that supposed to help Annabelle?”
“I got better investigators than the cops. You tell me everything you know, I’ll find her faster than they do.”
The January sun was warm. They arrived at the terrace and the maid magically appeared and poured ice teas. Giordano sat down at the table and leaned forward, his forearms pressing against the glass. “I want to know what the cops know and you can tell me.”
Claudia drank some tea and considered what he had said. “What I want to know,” she said, “is who took Paige to that house and why they killed her. And don’t tell me it was Annabelle.”
A disturbing notion struck her. What if Giordano himself was behind the killing and he just wanted to know how much she knew? A motive didn’t surface immediately, but still . . . Then she remembered the man who had stormed out of the house when she and Juan arrived. He looked like he could be a hit man for the Mob. At least, a TV image of one.
Giordano held her gaze so piercingly and for so long that she got the distinct impression that he knew exactly what she was thinking. It was all she could do not to squirm.
He carefully unfolded a napkin and wiped condensation from his glass. “You got any kids, Claudia?”
“I’m sure you already know I don’t.”
Giordano shook his head. “They make you insano, kids. And this one’s had a lot of practice. Started running away when she was seven. You know she’s got a rap sheet for shoplifting and car boosting?”
Even now that it didn’t make any difference, Claudia wasn’t going to admit that Paige had shared that information with her.
She said, “So what? When I was her age I got picked up with kids shoplifting, too. I got past
it.”
Giordano’s brows lifted in surprise. “You? I wouldn’t have guessed that.”
“I was with the wrong people at the wrong time.” The memory of the fear and humiliation of that weekend was still strong. Being left in juvenile detention because her mother refused to allow her to come home was one of the worst experiences of her life. She didn’t tell him that she hadn’t actually stolen anything. The older kids who took her along for cover were the ones stuffing their pockets with candy.
“Annabelle’s problems are a lot bigger than just being with the wrong people,” Giordano said.
“Losing her mother at such a young age had to be hard on her.”
“Her mother?” His lips twisted. “She’s better off without that ungrateful slut.”
Giordano’s words shocked Claudia into silence. Then she found her voice. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What do you think it means? She screwed around on me. That bitch was nothing but a teenybopper bit player when I found her. I sent her to the best acting school, voice lessons, you name it. I put up money for films she could star in.” His voice heated up and his complexion suffused a dark crimson as old anger kicked in. “When she insists on this bozo Tony Belmont to costar, I look into it and find out she’d been screwing him for over a year.”
“I don’t know about that,” Claudia said. “But I saw a picture of her in Annabelle’s room at school. It was obvious from the way she looked at her how much she loved Annabelle. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“Who the fuck knows if she’s even my kid?” Giordano sucked in a deep breath, looking as though he were trying to bring his bitter anger under control.
“Is that why you’re so cold to her?” Claudia asked.
He threw her a scornful look. “What the hell do you know? You show up a few times, give her handwriting lessons, go home. You don’t know a goddamn thing about it.”
Claudia knew it would be better if she let it go, but something compelled her to keep pushing the issue. She knew it was foolish, but it felt like defending Annabelle’s mother would help to draw the girl back.
