Takeoff

by Reid, Joseph

  I took another deep breath. “You heard Max: Nancy Irvine lives right up the road. So tomorrow, I think we’ll go pay her a visit.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Friday, July 17

  I slept in again the next morning, although not as late as Max.

  When I woke, I found my knee felt much improved. The knot had shrunk by half overnight, and although still sensitive to the touch, it had stopped affecting my movement. The other thigh still felt oddly stiff, but part of that could have just been my own fear of ripping out the stitches. The new combination left me with a pronounced limp that was infinitely preferable to my stiff-legged shuffle of the day before. My scraped shoulder itched, but otherwise my upper body felt positively normal compared to my legs. The arm in the sling didn’t hurt at all.

  After a quick shower, I began poking around the house for signs of life. The kitchen stood empty, and clocks on the appliances agreed it was somewhere between 11:05 and 11:07. Max was still sprawled facedown across her mattress in the second guest room.

  I found Shen in his office, back to the door, typing away while wearing the noise-reducing headphones I’d given him for Christmas a couple of years back. I started toward him, figuring I’d need to tap his shoulder to get his attention. But before I’d even made it halfway, he spun around on his chair. Slipping off the headphones, he shook his head. “Can’t sneak up on me, dude.”

  I raised my one free hand as if to show I was unarmed. “What’s up?”

  “Not much. I gotta meet a client this afternoon, so Brian went to his studio early. He should be back in a few.”

  “And here I thought I was your only client.”

  Shen’s eyebrows rose. “I’m having to diversify. You’ve been a little less prolific lately.”

  “Ouch.” I covered my heart with my hand and took a mock stagger-step backward with the good leg.

  Shen continued staring at me, and I realized he wasn’t going to let me off the hook.

  “I’ve just been in kind of a rut,” I said. “Nothing on my mind, you know? At least, nothing electronic.”

  He shrugged. “That’s natural. You need some time—it hasn’t even been a week.”

  I nodded slightly.

  Shen cocked his head. “I miss her, too, you know.”

  “Yeah,” was all I could manage.

  “You need to let yourself feel it.”

  Feeling my eyes starting to well up, I squeezed them shut.

  “What happened to her wasn’t your fault. You’ve got to remember that.”

  I nodded again, not because I actually believed him, but out of some hope it might cover the way my chin was trembling. As my throat clenched, I swallowed hard against it and prayed he’d move on to some other topic.

  “Good news is, we’ve got plenty in the pipeline . . .” Thankfully, he turned back to his computer and started ticking off the status and next steps on a handful of my patents. That bought me time to wipe my eyes and get it together.

  All told, Shen had filed about two dozen applications on circuits and gadgets I’d designed in my spare time. He’d also helped me approach companies about licensing them. The first couple had gone well enough—they’d paid the down payment on the house and let me bank some money on the side. I wasn’t exactly rolling in it—I sent a chunk of money to Shirley in Texas every month to help with my godkids, plus now I had Sarah’s five weeks of ICU bills to cover—but none of that seemed particularly important right now.

  As he turned back to me, Shen smiled. “You don’t care about any of this, do you?”

  “Not really.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I just keep tossing all this stuff about Max around in my head. None of it makes sense—what on earth would make someone want to kill a kid?”

  Shen’s mouth tightened into a grim line. “Only three reasons anybody ever kills anybody: fear, anger, or money.”

  I searched for some reason to disagree but couldn’t find any. He was so damn good at that.

  “You gonna wake her?” Shen asked.

  “Is it okay if I don’t? I’m thinking it’ll be easier getting in to see Nancy Irvine flying solo. And safer for Max—the less she shows her face around town, the better.”

  “Sure. One of us will be here. We can go shopping for you, too—it’s not like you have a ton to wear.”

  He had a point. Max had borrowed a T-shirt and shorts from Brian, who was closer to her size, while I was still trudging around in the athletic stuff they’d dressed me in after Enjeti had patched me up.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll pay you back, obviously.”

  He grinned. “I’ll just add it to your tab. You need anything else besides some new duds?”

  After listing off a few quick things, I added, “Can I borrow a car? And your phone?”

  Although I offered several times to take what the guys call the “paint truck”—an old pickup Brian uses when moving canvases to and from his studio—Shen didn’t think the rusted-out shell with multicolored splotches would play well in Malibu. He insisted I take the Lexus.

  Cruising along the 10, I realized I could’ve been in one of Irvine’s movies: a helicopter shot might have pulled up and away from the sunroof, panning forward to show no traffic ahead, only bright sunshine and blue water. The Southern California people elsewhere dream about, where every day is eighty-five degrees, sunny, and you never glance back to see haze smearing the views of downtown and the mountains.

  I hit Santa Monica in less than thirty minutes and turned onto PCH, where I switched off the AC and lowered the windows to let the breeze roll through.

  I’d only driven out to Malibu twice before, both times to surf. This time, I found myself paying more attention to the buildings than the beach. In most of LA’s coastal neighborhoods, the majority of houses are little bungalows, shacks built back in the 1920s that people pass off as “historic” to justify their price tag, as if a few arched doorways and outdated plumbing make eight hundred square feet worth $1.5 million. There are some huge mansions right along the beach, but usually, they’re the exception.

  Not on this drive.

  After turning north, cliffs sprout up on your right, eventually rising hundreds of feet overhead, their sandy soil covered in just enough brown scrub to fool you into forgetting it could all tumble down on you at any minute. The only man-made structures along this stretch sit on the ocean side of the road, blocking much of the view. It’s as if the rich are sending everyone else a middle-fingered message: you can’t touch this.

  By the time you hit Malibu proper, though, the money’s too much even to be bothered with messages. Cliffside houses pick up again, large and opulent, while the beachside places recede back behind tall hedgerows or security walls so all you can see are a few unassuming roofs. Hunkered down behind those barricades, built right on the dunes, are huge, multimillion-dollar mansions. Irvine’s address put her with the most elite of these: the so-called Billionaire’s Beach, a stretch of houses owned by software CEOs and rock stars.

  And, apparently, the occasional movie producer.

  As the house numbers gradually approached Irvine’s, I started searching for a parking spot. No easy task in Malibu. Decades ago, California decided almost all its beaches should be public property, with access every one thousand feet. Given the prices they paid, many of Malibu’s residents take great offense to that. Particularly along Irvine’s stretch, homeowners pull all kinds of tricks to keep people out, everything from posting privacy signs on public easements to blocking potential parking with orange construction cones.

  Funny thing, though: grassroots groups have banded together and fought back. The coolest thing they’ve come up with is a phone app showing all the public parking and access ways. I used the app to find a street spot for the Lexus, which left me a quarter mile walk back to Irvine’s house. With the limp, it took me longer than usual, but after being cooped up, the hot sun on my scalp felt more invigorating than withering.

 
Irvine’s number was posted on a whitewashed stucco wall that stretched at least a foot over my head. Midway along it stood two gates, both constructed from dark-stained wood. The larger one guarded the driveway: small, gray cobblestones peeked out beneath its bottom lip. The smaller one, shaped like a door with an arched top and glass insets, was obviously for pedestrians, but it bore a large lock and was monitored by a small security camera. An electronic call box was mounted into the stucco next to it.

  I pushed the “Talk” button on the box to see what would happen. A deep voice squawked through the speaker. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m a federal investigator. I need to speak with Ms. Irvine.”

  “You have an appointment?”

  “No,” I said. “This concerns something fairly urgent.”

  “Ms. Irvine is unavailable at the moment. You can make an appointment through her office. That number is—”

  “There’s no time for that. I need to speak with her now.” I took out my badge and held it up to the camera lens, although I realized I wasn’t exactly dressed to look the part.

  “Ms. Irvine is unavailable at the moment.”

  “That’s all you’re gonna give me?”

  “She’s unavailable.”

  “And if I come back here with a patrol car and a warrant? We can block traffic on PCH, make the evening news.”

  “She’s unavailable.”

  Damn. It was a total bluff, but I’d hoped it might crack him. “Fine, I’ll call her office.” Although I turned back the way I’d come, as soon as I was out of the camera’s view, I had my phone out, checking the beach-access app again.

  Following its map, I walked three houses down, where a narrow asphalt path cut between two tall fences. Dark, steep, and shadowy, the path looked like a drainage swale, its entrance blocked by a wooden sawhorse and some large plastic trash bins. As I double-checked the map, though, a strong breeze blew up through the channel and smacked my cheek.

  The air smelled rich with salt.

  The narrow passageway was particularly slow-going with my limp, but I emerged at the bottom onto a broad strip of white sand. A flock of gulls huddled to my right, but otherwise I counted only five visitors on the entire beach, all sunbathers spread across their towels. Although the wind whipped in off the water, the surf was placid, just tiny wavelets collapsing at the tideline.

  I could see why you’d want to keep this place to yourself.

  Starting back toward Irvine’s property, I took just a few steps before removing my sandals. Hot from the bright sun overhead, the deep sand scalded the bottoms of my feet, encouraging me along faster.

  While no part of Irvine’s house had been visible from the street, from the beach you could see the entire thing: a sprawling, three-story mission-style mansion, built directly into the hill so its series of rear terraces all faced the ocean. The house’s whitewashed walls gleamed so brightly in the sun they put even the powdery sand to shame. The tiled roof was a deep, bloody crimson that, juxtaposed against the walls, gave the building just the slightest feeling of a lighthouse. A small path snaked its way down from the bottommost terrace to the sand through dense patches of ice plant, whose normally dull, fleshy, blue-green shoots were adorned with bright purple flowers.

  No security was visible along the winding path, but I hurried as best I could just in case. Remarkably, I found the door to the lowest terrace unlocked, so I quickly entered and peered into the windows of the house’s bottom floor: a small gym and a bedroom, both darkened and unoccupied.

  Stucco steps led up to the next terrace, but unsure what awaited above, I climbed them cautiously. At the top, I found myself looking across a swimming pool toward a series of umbrella-covered tables on the opposite side. A white-haired woman sat alone at one, reading in the shade, glasses perched on the tip of her nose.

  I began rounding the pool, but activity on the next terrace up caught my eye. Two burly, suited men, running.

  I drew my badge and gun. Holding each in an outstretched hand, I called across the water. “Ms. Irvine?”

  The guards had reached the steps now, descending two at a time. While I kept them in my peripheral vision, I locked my eyes on the woman. Her calling off the dogs was the only way this would end nicely. She glanced up at me with a look of genuine surprise.

  “Ma’am, my name is Seth Walker. I’m a federal investigator, and I need to ask you some questions.”

  When the guards reached the bottom of the steps, they split up, one moving to protect Irvine, the other continuing toward me. Each was reaching inside his jacket.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’m afraid this can’t wait, ma’am. It’s a matter of life and death.”

  The runner had covered half the distance between us, clutching a pistol in the low ready position, but Irvine still hadn’t said anything. Next to her, the bodyguard was drawing a bead on me.

  Stepping sideways, I let the runner eclipse my view of Irvine, which also meant he blocked his partner’s shot. Then I dropped to a knee and brought the Sig around. “Stop right there, buddy. Keep the gun down.”

  The guard pulled up awkwardly, and for the first time, I got a good look at his face. Big, bulbous nose over a goatee. Dark eyes, flitting up and down between my face and the barrel of the Sig.

  I waved the badge as best I could in my free hand, despite the sling. “I really don’t want to hurt you. Or your boss. I’m just doing my job here, but I’ve gotta ask her some questions, okay?”

  He hesitated. I could see his muscles flexing, yearning to do something. But his brain wasn’t quite sure what.

  “Julian.” It was a female voice, stern and strong, and the guard turned in time to see the white-haired woman step to his side and seize his arm. She needed both hands to circle his bicep, and had to reach up to her own eye level to do it. “Julian, it’s fine. We don’t need any shoot-outs before lunch. Blood will be hell to clean out of the pool.” She shook her head dismissively. “Let the man ask me his questions. I won’t melt.”

  Gradually, the guard relaxed, until finally he tucked his gun back inside the jacket.

  The woman turned and waved me up off my knee. “Come on, Mr. Walker, it’s hot out here. Join me for a glass of iced tea.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Once we were seated across from each other at one of the shady tables, Nancy Irvine shooed Julian and the other guard away.

  “If it’d make you more comfortable, they can stay,” I said. I’d considered leaving the Sig on the table in front of me but decided it would be more polite to holster it.

  She shook her head. “They’re nice boys, but they only need to do two things: protect me from being kidnapped, and keep every waiter and waitress from the Valley from showing up on my lawn with their screenplay. Given that both my senators are still Democrats”—her lips pulled back to reveal teeth bright enough to match the walls of the house—“I doubt the government sent you to haul me to Guantanamo, and I don’t see a roll of pages under your arm, so we should be good. Although I have to admit, you’re not dressed like any federal agent I’ve ever seen.”

  I shrugged. “Undercover,” was the best thing I could find to say.

  She nodded at the sling. “You get that in the line of duty?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Part of the reason I’m here.”

  Although her brows rose at that, Irvine kept her pale-blue eyes trained on me in a way that was slightly unnerving. Her hair—stark white, with just a hint of a curl where it ended at her shoulders—agreed with what little I’d read, putting her into her sixties. But her face was devoid of lines, the skin still supple and smooth. If she’d had work done, it had been masterful: she lacked the tight, catlike expression you found after a bad face-lift or the stiffness of someone who’d been Botoxed. Instead, she looked like a thirty-year-old woman who’d gone prematurely gray.

  I glanced around. “You have a beautiful home.”

  “Thank you. I’ve always loved the beach, and it’s great for entertaini
ng.”

  “You might want to secure that beach gate a little better, though.”

  “I’ll have the boys look into it.” Her eyes bored into me harder. “You said something about life and death. I think the architectural features will keep.”

  “I’ve been assigned to protect a star who’s been receiving death threats—”

  Irvine rolled her eyes. “Welcome to being a star.”

  I cocked my head.

  “Seriously. I don’t know anyone on the talent side of this business who doesn’t get threatened now and again. It’s part of the price of being in the public eye.”

  “Well, these particular threats were followed by machine-gun fire from a small army. I was lucky to get away with just this,” I said, jabbing my chin down toward the sling.

  Irvine pursed her lips, but otherwise didn’t react. “Who’s the star?”

  “Someone I think you know. Her name is Max Magic.”

  Now Irvine’s cheeks pulled back into a full smile, and she glanced off to the horizon. “That poor little bitch.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Max and I worked on a project together. Or started to. But I’m guessing you knew that. Extremely talented kid, but she’s got some issues.”

  “Yeah, Max mentioned you two had history. That’s why I’m here.”

  Irvine leaned back in her seat.

  “Well?” I asked.

  “Well, what?”

  “Do you have anything to say about what happened between the two of you?”

  “You mean”—Irvine looked at me as if I were hard of hearing—“you’re actually thinking I might be involved somehow?”

  “It’s sort of my job to figure that out.”

  Irvine burst out laughing and clapped her hands together. “Don’t get me wrong, Mr. Walker, I’m actually kind of flattered. The idea that anyone would think of me as some mobster, ordering hits on people. As you’ve seen, I don’t exactly have an army at my disposal, and no, I haven’t dispatched Julian and Reynaldo to take out Max Magic.”