“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.”
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.
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 h
er 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&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.”
Will smacked his palm on his knee. “So what do you propose? We just leave her in this cult?”
“Yes. I understand you’re frustrated that you can’t persuade her to leave, but she’s an adult. Just because you have money doesn’t give you the right to use other means to remove her.” Dray moved her focus to her husband. “Come on, Tim. Let’s call it like it is. I shouldn’t have to remind you all that nothing illegal has taken place here.” She gestured at Will with her glass. “There’s a reason you’re not sending Roach—”
“Rooch.”
“—to do your bidding. There’s a reason Tannino’s using a freelancer for the job, and there’s a reason he’s using my husband.” She softened her voice. “You’re making some moves to get your daughter safe. Christ, with what we’ve been through, I can certainly relate. I’m not a saint, I’m not a priss, and I’m not a DA. I’m just recommending we all stay very aware of the game we’re playing here. If my husband extracts your daughter, his ass is the one on the line when the spin doctors scrub in.”
“That’s not going to happen. Whatever you do, you won’t have any legal problems. That I can assure you.”
Dray was on her feet. “With all due respect, Mr. Henning, you can’t make that promise.” She set her half-full glass on the bar and left the room.
Will chuckled. “No shrinking violet, that one.”
“No, sir.”
“So how about the P.O. box? You make any progress with the inspector?”
“Let’s just say he gave new meaning to the term ‘going postal.’ “ Will’s hearty laugh filled the room.
“I’d like to implement some small, sustainable disguise elements, on the off chance someone in the cult recognizes me from the news footage last year,” Tim said. “We usually pull a professional from the movie studios, but with the time frame—”
Will brightened. “I’ll have the hottest new makeup-and-hair guy in town at your house first thing tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock okay?” He killed his vodka, plunked the glass on a side table. “When all this is through, I’ll get you some Lakers tickets. On the floor. Right by Jack.” He waited for Tim to stand. “Rooch will see you out.”
Rooch had materialized above the steps, one hand clasping the other at the wrist. Tim paused on his way out, then turned back to Will. “Give me your watch.”
“Nice line reading. I’ll call you when we start casting.”
“The Service issues replicas. The guys I’m swimming with might know the difference.”
Though Emma made a displeased face, Will slid the Cartier off his wrist and tossed it to Tim. “That’s a thirty-thousand-dollar watch. Keep your eye on it.”
“I’ll be sure to.”
Rooch didn’t speak to Tim on the long walk out.
Dray was sitting in the passenger seat. She winked at him when he got in. “I don’t know about these freelance gigs, Timothy. Your track record is for shit.”
Tim pulled out and drove a few blocks. “You’re right. What you said in there.”
They passed out of the community under a wood arch proclaiming ADIÓS AMIGOS.
“Their home should be beautiful, but it just feels cold and antiseptic. They want the dog on the couch, off the couch, in the room, out of the room—imagine how’d they’d be as parents.” Dray let her breath out sharply through her teeth. “Emma’s anxiety runs that house. It runs Will, too. Families portion out emotion—I’d say her whining wouldn’t leave much room for a daughter to have normal growing-up difficulties. That would undermine Mother’s martyrdom.” Dray spoke bitterly—her own mother had enjoyed a familial monopoly on suffering.
“I’d guess Leah was an inconvenience to them.”
“I’d bet her job was to be quiet, easy, and invisible. And I’d bet she didn’t easily fit the bill.”
The traffic had lightened significantly. As they drove north, Tim reflected on his visit with his father. He’d learned at a young age that opening up had its costs—it left too much of himself to protect. And so he’d learned to seek sustenance elsewhere, to generate it from within, to remain tightly and serenely wound into himself.
This strategy had aided him when he enlisted and was called upon to kill other men.
“These aren’t people to be downstream from,” Dray said. “They have as much concern for you as they did for the late Danny Katanga. All they want is someone to bring in their daughter. Keep their house looking tidy. If that goes wrong, they’ll be looking for someone to blame.”
“But my reputation leaves me beyond reproach.”
She laughed. “You’re doing your Wile E. Coyote creep off the cliff right now. All I’m saying is, make sure you pack a parachute.”
FIFTEEN
In the back of the Growth Hall, Stanley John was beating the kettledrum, which sent a low, anesthetizing vibration through Leah’s bones. It made her job—unstacking folding chairs—easier. She moved through her work rhythmically, like a dancer. The backs of her arms were purpling with the bruises.
Lorraine and Winona scrambled around on all fours buffing the lacquered wood. A converted gymnasium from the adolescent facility, the Growth Hall featured a high-tech lighting system, basketball court lines, and a stage. Rewarded for his progress on the Web site, Chris wielded a measuring tape to calculate the space between seating.
TD paced the growing aisles, his usual preshow warm-up, his eyes riveted on the checklist in front of him. He barked his shin on an out-of-line folding chair.
Stanley John stopped beating the drum. The tape recoiled back into the metal square in Chris’s puffy hand. The gym fell silent.
TD glanced down at the wayward chair and then at Chris, who did not rise from his knees.
Dots of sweat rose on Chris’s forehead. “I’m sorry. I take ownership of my incompetence—”
TD spoke with a calm, honey-coated intensity. “Maybe you can’t step up to this task. Maybe measuring the distance between two chairs is too much for you.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just a little distracted. I was up all night fussing with the hyperlinks—”
“Well, that’s a ready batch of answers. Looks like we’ve backslid into excuse making. What’s our friend Chris need to do, folks?”
“Negate victimhood.”
TD brushed Chris’s hair out of his eyes. “I think we need to reset your preferences for humility. You can start by unclogging the methane bleeders at the septic tank tomorrow.”
Chris’s eyes clenched shut. “Thank you, Teacher.”
“Where’s your wife?”
“Over here, TD,” Janie called out with a smile. Her
dark, stiff jeans, tight around her firm behind, struck a contrast with her baggy pink sweater. She finished dumping another five-pound bag of sugar into the vat of punch while another helper stirred away.
“Come.”
Janie walked over and stood obediently before him, arms at her sides. “Does your husband default to victimhood, Janie?”
She looked from TD to Chris, then back to TD. “He has lapsed Off Program a little lately.”
TD nodded severely. “On the other hand, in the past few weeks, you’ve closed on”—he turned a half circle and raised his voice—”more Neos than anyone else.” His applause was picked up by the others. Still on his knees, Chris clapped along with them. “Not like Sean and Julie, whose numbers have been down.” Dark looks from all directed at the laggards. “Chris, give your wife the tape measure. That’s it.”
Chris raised it to his wife’s waiting hands. TD cupped his palm on the ridge of Janie’s hip, just above the back pocket of her jeans. Chris’s eyes were riveted to TD’s gently squeezing fingers.
Janie smiled, basking in TD’s glow.
“Others have found it easier to work without a bulky sweater on,” TD said.
Her eyes fixed on his, Janie pulled the sweater off over her head, revealing a fitted undershirt through which her nipples showed slightly. TD nodded, pleased, and resumed his pacing. The hall fell back into motion.
Chris rose and sulked in a rear corner, his eyes beady and small above his too-wide cheeks. Leah was relieved TD didn’t take note, for something had changed in Chris’s eyes, and it was a change he would not have liked.
She pulled the next chair off the stack and handed it to a young graphic-design guru whose name she’d forgotten; he snapped it open and slid it down the assembly line.
TD strolled beatifically through the flurry of activity, his focus never leaving his notes.
“Teacher, do you want the cookies arranged on the trays flat or stacked?”
His eyes stayed on his checklist. “Flat.”
Another worker—”I cut my finger pretty good. Can I get a ride to the ER so I can get it looked at?”
The Program Page 12
