Newport Beach may well have the highest per capita number of financial sleazeballs in the state of California, and maybe in the United States—with the possible exception of celebrated portions of New Jersey. It was, therefore, an excellent location for one who made his fortune unmasking and profiting from the exposure of the Ponzis and the Pyramids, along with lesser frauds and ineptitudes. It was also quite beautiful, with a charming harbor and a perfect climate, like a cross between Switzerland and the south of France.
Sanchez Associates, however, was in the business corridor near the freeway, in one of those buildings that reflect back the light in interesting colors depending on the time of day. His office itself was done in generic wealthy: everything understated, from the chair (body by Scandinavia, leather by Italy) to the Tamayo lithograph on the wall, which featured one of his coyote-wolf-like things squinting malevolently at the artist. It was rather disturbing.
However, I had not come to critique David Sanchez’s taste in art. “Thank you for seeing me,” I said in a tone I hoped was as far from desperate as possible.
“My secretary said you might have some financial information of interest,” he said politely.
I didn’t blame him for being dubious. He had already correctly pegged me as Ms. Suburbia, the leather briefcase at my feet notwithstanding. His indifferent civility made me realize the absurd futility of trying to convince him to help me, but I plunged in anyway. “I’m not sure what I have,” I said truthfully, “but I’m hoping you can help me evaluate some financial information.” I sketched, very briefly, the background of the materials and my belief that something in the box might have been the source of blackmail. “I’ve looked at the papers myself, but I need someone with the background and resources to interpret them.”
The corners of his mouth turned down slightly. “These are legal files?” he asked.
“Among other things.” I had brought most of the letters, too, in case there was something hidden that I had missed.
“Your possession of them might not be strictly legitimate,” he suggested.
“I think almost everything is a copy,” I told him.
He opened one of the folders, gave it a cursory glance, and then looked harder. I peered at it across the desk; it was one of Eleanor’s haranguing letters. His nose wrinkled. “This is rather distasteful,” he said, his eyes widening.
Too late, I realized that I should have organized the contents more carefully. “I know,” I told him. “Some of the personal letters are really awful, but I wasn’t sure if I should leave them out. The business papers are in the next folder.”
He folded his hands on the desk in front of him. “I’m sorry,” he said somewhat curtly, as if I were a panhandler blocking the entrance to his favorite restaurant. “I just don’t think there is anything we can do for you. I thought I told you when we first met that we don’t review personal financial documents.”
“Look,” I told him, trying not to sound desperate, “when I first asked you about it, my motives were personal. I was very worried about my own divorce settlement, and I wanted to know if there was, shall we say, a precedent at my husband’s law firm for deceitful dealings. But this is more important than that. I think there might be something in these papers that somebody wants back pretty badly. Now that I know it can’t just be that Barclay Hampton manipulated his assets to cheat his wife out of a fair settlement, I figure it has to be something I’ve overlooked.” I took a deep breath. “And I think Eleanor might be dead because of whatever it is.”
He gave me a look of polite incredulity. “If you think this is a matter of blackmail, or, if I understand you correctly, homicide, it’s a criminal issue. You should probably take it to the police.”
“I’m prepared to,” I assured him, “but first I need a coherent story to overcome their theory that this was a suicide or maybe an accidental drowning. I need to put all the pieces together.”
“Would it be unfair to ask why you are so interested in pursuing this? What do you stand to get out of it?”
“Apart from wanting to see justice done, you mean?”
He smiled slightly. “If you like.”
I told him about the break-in in the garage. “I don’t think it’s safe not to know what happened, and why.”
“I see.” He sounded perfectly equable, but of course he didn’t see. He thought I was a loony. It was written all over his face. I decided to abandon my cool businesswoman posture, since he had clearly made up his mind not to help me in any case. “Look,” I told him angrily, “the last time we met, I was rude to you. I—”
“True,” he said, with another glint of a smile.
“I apologize. Getting divorced does weird things to you. That’s not an excuse; it’s an explanation. Anyway, please get it through your head that I don’t want anything personal from you other than a few hours of your time, which I’m prepared to pay for. All I need is your help. I just want you to understand that this isn’t some elaborate ruse to see you again or anything like that.” I was talking too fast, and my palms were sweating. Calm down, I told myself.
“Relax,” he said, the smile now extending to his eyes as well. “Stop worrying about hurting my feelings. I accept that your motives, whatever they are, are noble. It’s okay.”
It wasn’t. He thought I was a crazed premenopausal Fury out on some personal vendetta. “Don’t humor me,” I told him.
He laughed, a broad, rich sound. “What do you want me to say?”
“That you don’t believe I’m so in the grip of my idée fixe that I’ve lost all perspective. That I’m really not some vengeance-seeking sicko trying to get a thrill out of pinning a murder on a blameless innocent. But even if you believe that, the death doesn’t have to be your concern. Everybody in the world has said ‘good riddance’ about Eleanor Hampton, and there’s no reason you should be an exception.”
“I’m almost sorry I didn’t meet this woman,” he said meditatively.
“You wouldn’t have liked her,” I assured him. “No one liked her.”
“Except you,” he offered.
“I didn’t like her,” I said, surprised at the suggestion. “I’m not even sure I blame Barclay for dumping her for someone else. But he could have been kinder, personally and financially, especially when he made so much money on Naturcare. And I do blame him for that.”
He shifted his posture ever so slightly and leaned forward over the desk. “Naturcare?”
He said it blandly, but nevertheless I thought I had caught the first real glimmer of interest in the conversation. Interest, if not enthusiasm, in his line of business had to mean something. “You’ve heard something?” I asked him.
He sat back in his impressive chair and put his fingertips together. He frowned. “Do you remember when you suggested that just investigating a company might have the desired effect, at least from my point of view, and drive the stock price down, whether or not there was any real financial basis for concern?”
“Did I?” At this distance I was a little vague on our former conversation.
“You did,” he assured me. “When you’re in this business, everybody and his mother is looking for tips.” He sighed. “I never mention company names if I can help it, not even to the shoe repairman or the grocery clerk. It would be totally irresponsible, not to mention unethical.”
“In other words, I didn’t hear what I thought I heard.”
“Correct.” He rubbed his temples with his slender fingers; he looked tired. “Look, if you’ll promise not to read anything into it, I’ll make you a deal. Right now I’m so busy I don’t have time to eat dinner, much less anything else. But if you’ll leave your materials with me for a few weeks, I’ll try to have one of my associates look them over for you. I can’t promise they’ll find anything more than you found yourself, but their eyes are better trained than yours to spot irregularities.”
I envisioned some sneering Yuppie whippersnapper trying to get through my files in record time because
his boss said he had to look at them to humor somebody. Besides, I didn’t want to leave them anywhere for weeks and weeks. There wasn’t time for that. “But it would only take a few hours to get through them,” I protested.
He took off his reading glasses and massaged the end of his nose. “It’s the best I can do; sorry.”
I stood up and gathered the files into a pile. I swept them into the briefcase. “Thanks anyway,” I told him. “I think I ought to find somebody else, then.”
“You’re sure? It wouldn’t necessarily be more than a couple of weeks. I just don’t want to make any promises.”
“No, it’s okay,” I told him. “It’s not your fault; I’d be skeptical, too, if I were you. But I think I need to find somebody who hasn’t already made up his mind.”
“Look, I never said—”
“Don’t worry about it,” I told him, extending my hand. He took it gingerly; his clasp was warm.
“Okay,” he said. “Good luck.”
Back on the street, clutching my briefcase full of inscrutable information, I pondered my next move. Of course there were other people who could look over the material, but I had counted on David Sanchez. I wanted him to do it, not some kid just out of business school with suspenders and aspirations. I sighed and put the case in the backseat of the car. A Mercedes sports car with the license plate TIME4FUN had parked so close to me that I couldn’t open the driver’s side door without nicking its paint or, worse, setting off the car alarm. I imagined David Sanchez leaning out the window, annoyed.
I felt like crying, an overrated pastime that nonetheless has its satisfactions. Instead, I opened my purse, extracted a quarter from my wallet, and marched over to a phone booth I had seen just inside the building lobby.
“Sanchez Associates.”
“Mr. Sanchez, please,” I said in my best imitation of a Texas accent. I was hampered by a lifetime aversion to Dallas reruns. “Please hold for Mr. Perot.”
This was not, apparently, so remarkable an event as to excite suspicion. “I’m putting your call through,” the receptionist told me.
“Ross?” David Sanchez’s warmth threatened to ooze all the way down the line into the lobby. He was going to be pissed when I undeceived him.
“Sorry,” I said sincerely, “it’s Caroline James.”
The warmth turned to ice. “Is this some kind of a joke?”
“No, of course not. I couldn’t think of any other way to get you to answer, because I knew you wouldn’t pick up if I told you the truth.”
His silence told me that he acknowledged the justice of this.
“Look, I said I was sorry. I’m desperate,” I told him.
“What can I do for you?” he asked, after a minute.
“I have a proposition. Just give me two hours of your time, and I’ll fix you dinner. I’ll pick you up and bring you back. You can choose the menu. I’ll pay for your time, too. You won’t be out that much because even though you said you don’t have time to eat, you know you have to. After that I promise I’ll never bother you again.”
I could almost hear him weighing the inconvenience against the certainty of getting rid of me once he did as I asked. “One hour,” he said finally.
“An hour and a half.”
“How good a cook are you?”
“Very,” I told him.
“Okay, it’s a deal. Do you have a car phone?”
“No,” I said. I managed not to tell him that I thought they were pretentious, if not dangerous.
“Then I’ll drive myself down.” He paused. “I’m free on Tuesday.”
“Great.” I gave him the address and directions. “Do you really know Ross Perot?” I asked him curiously.
“Are you really a great cook?” he countered.
“See you Tuesday,” I told him.
The back door was open, and I could hear Maria moving around in the kitchen. A tiny pile of entrails, the remains of something I would rather not have known about, rested tidily on the bricks. I was always amazed at the cat’s ability to consume all of his victim except this apparently distasteful remnant. Melmoth usually wanted praise for his kills, so I obliged him, but I wished his self-esteem had not necessitated bringing them to our doorstep to dispatch. I went to get a spade to dig yet another hole in the flower beds. If there were a tribunal for feline serial killers in the afterlife, our backyard was damningly full of evidence.
Intimate contact with the flower beds, which I avoided as often as possible, forced me to confront the fact that the weeds had made a number of daring incursions since the last time Jason and Megan spent an afternoon “cleaning up.” They were supposed to take care of the yard in exchange for the astronomical allowances they commanded, but all of our standards had declined since their father had left, though the allowances, of course, had not. I just didn’t have the energy to nag them about it.
The yard wasn’t exactly an eyesore, but it was a little shabby around the edges of the landscaping Master Plan. Spurge, the most tenacious of weeds, had extended green tentacles in an alarming number of directions, bent on conquest. I considered the prospect of marshaling my family for an assault on the overgrowth and immediately wondered if it was worth it to pay a gardener to come in and clean things up.
I briefly considered hiring Manuel, Maria’s cousin, who had worked for the Hamptons, till I remembered that she said he had gone back to Mexico. Then I grabbed the spade, electrified, the guts quivering on the point over the hole I had made. I should have remembered Manuel earlier. What if he had seen or heard something before he left? Even if he had gone home before Eleanor died, he might be an “inside source” about goings and comings at the house, and he had been right under my nose all along. He did have the minor, annoying problem of not speaking English, so it would be too much to hope he had overheard anything of interest, however careless Eleanor might have been in her talk. Still, it might be worth getting in contact with him, if Maria could arrange it.
Maria was washing the crystal. I hadn’t used any of the glasses in at least six months, so they were covered with the film that the combination of sea air and dust causes to coat things in coastal communities. It made me sad that they were dusty with disuse, and the useless cleaning ritual, repeated every few weeks, reminded me of polishing my mother’s enormous silver spoon collection as a child. No one ever used those, either, but you weren’t supposed to, so it was okay. The alternative to the futility of cleaning was letting them gather cobwebs untouched, like Miss Havisham’s wedding feast, and that was infinitely worse. There were only so many symbols of ruined expectations I could handle.
Jesus, was I ever feeling sorry for myself. The mood came and went like fainting fits. I remembered the sense of purpose with which I had entered the kitchen and tried to recover it.
Maria smiled warmly at me when I went in. “How are you, Mrs. James? Jason said to remind you, you said he could go to Danny’s to work on his movie, and Megan has football practice.”
I smiled back. “Football?”
“I think so.”
I thought. “Oh, soccer. That’s fútbol in Spanish, isn’t it?”
“Sí. I forgot.”
“Well, girls play every sport these days, so football is probably next. Anyway, I wanted to ask you something. About Manuel.”
The smile faded. She set the last glass down next to the sink very carefully and looked at me.
“I’d like to know where he is.” I was about to say that I wanted to know how to get in contact with him, but to my surprise, she burst into tears.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. James,” she said, hiccuping a little. “I swear he’s gone back to Mexico now. I swear it.”
“Why, what’s the matter?” I asked her, confused. “Is something wrong with him?”
She ignored the question, wiping her eyes on her wrist. “It was only a couple of days. He didn’t have no place else to go.”
“Maria, I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”
She stopp
ed, wiping her eyes, and sniffled. “About Manuel,” she said patiently, as if I were slow-witted. “He only stay here two days, then he go. That’s all, I swear.”
“Here?”
“Sí. In the garage.”
Much, as they say, was now made clear. “You mean it was your cousin who left the blanket and the food?”
It dawned on her that she had made an unnecessary confession. Her eyes widened. “You did not know?”
“I had no idea,” I assured her. “Did he…did he break into the garage, too?” Obviously, if Manuel was the burglar, I was going to have to reevaluate my hypothesis.
Maria drew herself up with indignation. “Of course not. Manuel would never do such a thing. Besides, he go home long before.” She looked at me suspiciously. “If you did not know it was Manuel in the garage, then why did you want to know where he is?” she demanded.
“Wait. First tell me why Manuel was sleeping out there, and why you didn’t say anything about it if he needed a place to stay.”
She stared mulishly at her feet.
“Maria?”
“He was scared, señora,” she said at last. “He made me promise.” She looked up. “He didn’t steal nothing.”
I remembered the orange and the corn chips. “Oh, Maria. I know that. That isn’t it.” I paused. “What was he afraid of?”
“Señora?”
“You said he was scared. What was he scared of?”
She averted her eyes. “I don’t know,” she mumbled. I didn’t think she was telling me the truth.
“Did Mr. Hampton do something to him? Or Mrs. Hampton?”
She stepped backward, but the sink prevented her retreat. She shrugged. “She was dead.”
I felt a surge of excitement, as if the word “clue” had suddenly descended from on high in neon letters, flashing and whistling. I tried to sound calm. “Please, Maria, won’t you sit down for a minute and tell me about it?”
She looked trapped, the way Melmoth did when he saw the cat carrier that always meant a trip to the vet. “Okay,” she said reluctantly. I felt like a bully.
Making Waves Page 19
