“Ed called me with a proposition of sorts,” Drew said. “He wanted to know if I had a guy who could act as a bodyguard for his daughter, Stella. Do you know her?”
“No. Well, I know of her.” I knew of Stella Brookshire because she was a pro cross-country mountain bike racer who’d had a really bad crash the previous year at the UCI World Championships. Cross-country wasn’t really my thing—I was more into downhill and enduro—but I sure as hell wasn’t a pro, either, and I’d stream the UCI events when I could. Cross-country might not have the same heart-stopping, edge-of-your-seat adrenaline that downhill did, but you had to give it to those who raced that discipline—they had endurance, for sure.
“This is sort of an atypical thing for us,” Drew continued. “And Ed asked me to really think about who the ideal candidate for this particular job would be.” He paused.
“And you think that’s me?”
Drew nodded. “I think that’s you.”
It did please me to hear this. Out of all the people who worked at Parker Security, but in particular out of the four other main people—myself, Lena, Ben, and Jason—Drew thought that I would be the right one for the job. That did feel good.
“This isn’t going to be as easy as you might think,” Drew said. “Ed was candid with me about his daughter. She’s... difficult, I guess would be the right way to put it. He said they’ve gone through countless bodyguards in the past year and that some guys haven’t even lasted a full week.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Ed didn’t get into all the details with me, but he did say that the circumstances under which Stella’s bike accident occurred were suspicious, though they were never able to draw any concrete conclusions.”
“They think someone tampered with the brakes?”
Drew tilted his head, looking at me. “Sounds like you might know more about the situation than I do.”
“Well, I remember when it happened. It was a pretty bad collision.”
“She had to undergo multiple surgeries, and obviously Ed is concerned about her well-being. But part of the reason I think you’re the best candidate for the position is because you’re into bikes, too, and that’s one of the main things he’s looking for—someone who will go out with her when she wants to go riding. He’ll be able to give you more details about it. Are you free this afternoon? They’d like to meet with you. They live over in Pacific Heights—I can give you the address.”
“Sure, I can do that.”
Drew nodded. “Great. I’m going to take you off some of the upcoming events you were scheduled to work. Ed is going to pay you directly, though you’ll still get your paycheck from here, too. Not as much, but that shouldn’t be a problem because I know Ed will pay you well.”
Sounded good to me. Money had never really been a strong point of mine, which maybe should’ve been something I’d taken into consideration when going to school for business. I wasn’t an astute saver like my sister Liz, or frugal like my brother Phil; the way it seemed to me was that money was fluid and you were supposed to earn it and spend it and ideally have some saved away, but sometimes things came up and made that not quite possible. An unforeseen medical expense, a girl who likes fancy restaurants, a new bike... All these things could really add up. Plus, I wasn’t really someone who had ever considered money a status symbol of anything. I wasn’t drooling over that custom downhill bike because I thought it would make me look cool; I was drooling over it because it was cool and it would be hella fun to ride. And just maybe, if Ed Brookshire was going to pay me well, I might be able to afford that bike sooner than I had thought.
***
The Brookshires lived on Broadway in Pacific Heights, naturally, in the part of the neighborhood better known as Billionaires’ Row. To say I felt out of place would be the understatement of the year, but I ignored all feelings of inadequacy as I leaned my bike against some hedges. There were some brick steps that led up to a wrought-iron gate, and there appeared to be a call box. I trotted up the steps, looking straight ahead as I did so. The house—mansion, really—was the sort of place you might see in a movie or on the pages of some fancy architecture magazine. To be honest, though, apart from its sheer size, the exterior wasn’t that impressive. It was four stories, took up an entire corner block, and had a huge rooftop deck, but it was painted white and didn’t even have any fancy embellishments, other than some arched windows, though most were regular. The Painted Ladies and some of the old Victorians in the Haight would beat this behemoth hands down in any sort of exterior fashion contest.
“Hey! Where do you think you’re going?”
I turned at the sound of the voice and saw a clean-cut guy, maybe a few years younger than me. He had hedge clippers in his hand, but was wearing a polo shirt and khaki shorts, plus boating shoes. Not your typical landscaper outfit. He glared at my bike. “You can’t leave that here. Does this hedge look like a bike rack to you?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll move it. I—”
“What are you doing here, anyway?” He waved the hedge clippers as I walked past to retrieve the bike. “This house is not open to the public; it’s a private residence!”
The tiniest of branches had intertwined with the brake cable, and it snapped off as I pulled the bike up. It fell to the sidewalk and was then picked up by a light breeze and blown a few feet into the road, where it was promptly run over by a souped-up-looking Range Rover. The guy’s glare intensified, as if I had just pushed one of his children out into traffic.
“Oops,” I said meekly. “Um... where should I put my bike, then?”
“You should get on your bike, start pedaling, and get as far away from here as possible.”
He had the faintest hint of an accent. “Are you British?” I asked, hoping to maybe find some common ground. Well, I wasn’t British—had a good bit of Irish in me from Dad’s side— but my brother-in-law was, and I thought their accents sounded similar.
The glare transformed into a snarl. “British?” he snapped. “No! I’m originally from Wales. And I’m very much done having this conversation with you! Time to go.”
“But... I’m actually not here for a tour of the place, though I’m sure it would be riveting. I’ve got…” I paused. An appointment? An interview? I wasn’t sure what it was exactly. “They’re expecting me.”
“Who is expecting you?”
“Ed.”
The guy snorted. “Mr. Brookshire, you mean?”
“Um, yeah, sure, Mr. Brookshire. My name’s Cole, and I’m—”
The guy waved the clippers again. “I don’t need your life story. This isn’t a meet-and-greet or a get-to-know-you session. Wait here. And don’t lean that hunk of metal against my shrubs!”
He brushed past me and tapped a code into the call box, and the wrought-iron gate swung open. I watched as he trotted up another half-dozen or so brick steps, which led to two French doors. He opened the one on the right and then disappeared. I looked around for a minute, trying to figure out where I should leave my bike. I finally walked it across the street and leaned it against a lamppost; I didn’t have my lock on me, but I figured my bike would be safe in this neighborhood, even if it was a vintage IndyFab. People around here would think the custom paint job, with its pink stars on the fork and top tube, were too garish for their tastes, I was pretty sure of that.
I was just crossing back over when the French doors opened again. Instead of the guy with the hedge clippers, though, it was an older man, average height, thick head of graying hair, clean-shaven. He, too, was wearing a polo shirt, but he had on jeans and a regular pair of sneakers and he seemed way more at ease than the other fellow.
“Cole?” he said as he walked down the steps to the gate. He opened the gate as I approached and he held out his hand. “Ed Brookshire. Come on in. Sorry if Gareth was giving you a hard time.”
His handshake was firm, but not the sort of crushing, I’m-asserting-my-dominance-over-you grip that some super-rich guys feel the need t
o do. He looked over my shoulder. “That your bike over there?”
“Yes.”
He squinted. “I like the paint job. Why don’t you grab it and bring it inside? This is a safe neighborhood and all, but you shouldn’t just leave it out there like that.”
“You want me to bring the bike inside?”
“Sure—why not? I bet Stella would like to check it out.”
So I turned back around and trotted down the steps, back across the street, and retrieved my bike. Ed held the gate open for me as I squeezed the front brake and lifted the bike up onto the rear wheel so I could navigate it up the steps. Gareth was coming back outside right as the bike and I made it through the French doors—in fact, we almost ran right into him. His gasp was audible, but it wasn’t because we had almost hit him—it was because he couldn’t believe that the bike that had just maimed his hedges was now being invited into the house.
“Gareth,” Ed said. “This is Cole O’Keefe. Drew sent him over from Parker Security.”
Gareth shot me a look. “Oh,” he said. “You should’ve said so in the first place.” I got one more glare, the bike got an even more intense one, and then Gareth was out the door, down the steps, tending to his hedges. Ed smiled.
“Like I said, don’t mind him. My wife hired him many years ago—he’s apparently some sort of plant whisperer. That’s how she put it, anyway. And I do have to admit, he is good at what he does. Over the years, his role has morphed into more of that of my wife’s personal assistant, and he’s grown somewhat... protective of the family, I guess you could say. His bark is far worse than his bite. But that’s not why you’re here today. Why don’t we go into my office for a few minutes.”
I nodded, trying not to look like I was too bowled over by the place. But you’re talking about a kid who grew up the youngest of five kids in a run-down Craftsman in Berkeley, where housekeeping and interior decorating were never that high on anyone’s agenda. However unimpressive the exterior of the place was, the interior certainly made up for. But it wasn’t overdone—everything had a very light, airy feel. The floors were hardwood—big, wide planks of expensive, oil-finished wood. There weren’t a lot of rugs; why would you want to cover up a floor as nice as this one? The walls were white, or painted a light color, like yellow or pale blue. Ed turned left abruptly, and then we were at his office, which was a room about the size of my entire apartment.
This room had more of an old-timey feel, or like you’d just stepped into a hunting lodge in Wyoming. The walls were dark mahogany; there was a big fireplace on one side of the room with a massive hearth, a leather sectional and a matching recliner, and a huge desk, probably the size of a dining-room table for ten.
“Let’s sit,” Ed said, gesturing to the couch. “Can I get you anything to drink?”
“No, thank you,” I said.
I took a spot in the middle of the couch, and Ed sat across from me in the recliner, though he kept it in the upright position.
“So, Cole,” he said, “I don’t know what Drew has told you about this job opportunity, but it’s not exactly a typical one. I wanted to go over that with you first, so you have a better idea of what you’re getting yourself into.”
“He told me a little bit,” I said.
“Well, Stella had a bike accident last year. She had been on the professional race circuit and it’s something she’s always loved to do. No one else in our family is particularly athletic, so I’m not sure where she gets it from, but I do know it’s something she wants to get back into. Now, I can’t say if it will ever be in the capacity that it used to be, but I certainly don’t want to stand in the way of her getting back into something that she enjoys. Drew told me that you also have an interest in bikes.”
“I’ve always loved bikes. I have four older brothers and sisters, and as a kid, I remember being really envious of seeing them being able to go off on their own and do things—just get in the car and go somewhere. That sort of changed for me once I got a bike, because I suddenly had that same freedom. Maybe not exactly the same, but…” I shrugged, letting my voice trail off.
“I’m sure Stella would say something similar. I don’t need to re-hash the whole thing, but the circumstances surrounding her accident were suspicious. She had a mechanic, who had to be let go after the accident.”
“You think the mechanic had something to do with it?”
“I don’t,” Ed said. “Well, not anymore. I had a private investigator look into the whole thing, but he wasn’t able to come up with any definitive answers, in regard to that, anyway. And like I said, I don’t know much about bikes, but I do know that one of the mechanic’s primary responsibilities is to make sure that the bike is in prime working order, and that just didn’t happen. Stella’s injuries were serious but fortunately never life-threatening. It scared the hell out of me and her mother, though.” He shuddered slightly. “There was a part of us that was hoping that Stella wouldn’t get back into it, but I realize that was naïve. If it had been a car she’d been driving, we wouldn’t expect she’d never want to get in a car again—right?”
There was a pause and I realized he wasn’t just asking rhetorically. “Right,” I said quickly.
“And she hasn’t really been candid with me about what she wants to do, but I have a feeling she’s at least going to try to enter another race again. Whether that’s going to be on the professional circuit, I don’t know, but it’s obviously not something that she’s going to give up. What I don’t want is to have to be worrying about her out on the trails alone. I never liked that aspect of it. She had some people she knew that she’d go on training rides with, but more often than not she’d go out by herself.”
“I definitely wouldn’t mind going out on some rides.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear that. Look, I’m not going to try to beat around the bush, so I’m just going to say it. Stella isn’t interested in having a bodyguard, and she’s made that very clear. Don’t expect her to be friendly, and in fact, don’t be surprised if she’s downright rude to you. It’s not something to take personally. The ideal candidate for this position is going to be someone who is able to remain detached and not get instigated by her antics. Do you think that describes you?”
“Um, yeah,” I said, though even I had to admit I didn’t sound very convincing. Though part of me was wondering, what was the worst she could do? Call me an idiot? Tell me that I sucked at bike riding?
“I want my daughter to be safe, and I want her to be happy. Safety is more important to me right now, though. So, I guess what I’m saying is she’s not thrilled about this. But why don’t we head out this way and I’ll go get Stella, and you two can have a few minutes to get to know each other.”
I followed Ed out of his office, down a hallway past several large rooms. He stopped when we came to the end of the hallway, which opened into a large, airy space with several couches and chairs and a coffee table with a vase containing some big white flowers.
“Make yourself comfortable. I’ll go find Stella and send her down.” He patted my shoulder and then turned and walked back down the hallway, leaving me alone for a moment.
I walked over to one of the couches. I wasn’t even sure what you’d call this room—the family room? The sitting area? It wasn’t even really a room, just an open space, with the only wall really being six windows right next to each other, offering an endless view of the Bay. Oh, and the Golden Gate Bridge. What must it be like to wake up here every day and have the option of sitting in this very comfortable chair, feet propped up on the ottoman, looking out at that? A person could get used to this sort of thing. Well, maybe not. I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to get used to living somewhere like this. I mean, I’d probably get lost. How many rooms were in this place, anyway? And it was just the three of them living here?
I stood up when Stella appeared. I tried not to do a double take. I’d seen her before, sure, but it had been during a bike race, when she’d had a helmet on, and sunglasses, and
I was only as close as the camera was able to get. In person, wearing a pair of jeans and a gray T-shirt, she was more gorgeous than any woman probably had the right to be. Yet she wasn’t smiling, and in fact looked rather displeased. She had long, honey-brown hair that reached almost to her waist and it swished as she walked toward me. Her eyes were large, light brown, with long, thick lashes.
“Hi,” I said. I took a step toward her and tripped, though I caught myself and at least did not end up sprawled on the ground in front of her. I held out my hand. “I’m Cole.”
She tilted her head forward slightly to look at my hand, then she looked up at me, but with her eyes only. She did not reach out, and so I stood there for several seconds, arm extended.
“Just going to leave me hanging?” I asked.
She ignored me and walked over to the chair I’d just been sitting in. She sat down, crossing one leg over the other. She was barefoot, and her toes were painted a pale pink. She had a thin silver ring on the second toe of her left foot.
“You look familiar,” she finally said.
I smiled. “I just have one of those faces.”
She squinted at me, and then the squint morphed into a frown, and she scrutinized me for several long seconds before snapping her fingers. “You were at Arete last night.”
“Are you stalking me?”
She let out a short, barking laugh. “You wish. No, I was there because it was my dad’s birthday and it’s his favorite restaurant. You were at the big table in the middle. I remember.” She tilted her head. “And I remember looking over at you and thinking you looked sad. Are you one of those super-emotional guys who lets his fee-fees get the better of him all the time? Because if you are, you might as well just quit now, because it’s not going to work out.” The tiniest of smirks curved the corners of her mouth. “It won’t work out anyway, but why prolong the agony?”
Parker Security Complete Series Page 27
