The Wonder Test

by Michelle Richmond

  “Middle-aged.”

  “Well, that narrows it down,” George announces. “Thanks, we’ll be going now.”

  “Really?” Kenny looks outright happy.

  “No, not really,” I say.

  “Shit.”

  “Was he a tall, handsome Japanese fellow?”

  Kenny looks at me, confused. “Naw, man, I don’t know what the fuck this guy was, but he sure as shit wasn’t a tall Japanese guy. Short, funny-looking dude. His face was all fucking weird.”

  “Weird how?”

  “Like he’s on Nip/Tuck or some shit. Like Mickey Rourke level, Charlie and the Chocolate fucking Factory. Like somebody put him through a machine and the machine was on the wrong fucking setting.”

  “How did he dress?”

  “Weird. Bow tie and shit.”

  “What kind of car?” George prompts.

  “Ugly-ass orange Bentley. Who drops a shitload on a Bentley and then paints it fucking orange?”

  George catches my eyes and nods toward the door; he wants to know if we should go.

  I have more questions for Kenny, but nothing good comes from us staying in Kenny’s house too long.

  “Kenny, I need to hear the words. What exactly did he pay you for?”

  “You know what he paid me for. To take the kids and keep them out of the way, then return them. He paid a ton to make sure we did the job right. It’s easy to take shit. Hard to return it.”

  “So he didn’t want you to hurt the kids?”

  “Naw, man. That would have been easier. I got a dozen guys who could do that. The instructions were to return the kids in working order, keep them out of the way until it was time to bring them back. No DNA. No injuries, no pervy shit, no trace, he made that clear. If a kid died or got, you know, compromised, it’d be on me, big-time. I couldn’t find anyone with their shit together, and my usual guy was out of the country.” Kenny is still dabbing the blood on his face. “Travis was a fucking disaster. Should have done it myself. If you’re here, Travis obviously messed up.”

  I meet George’s eyes, nod. We both stand and back toward the door.

  “That’s it?” Kenny is confused. “You’re leaving?”

  George winks at him. “Looks that way, sport.”

  Kenny shakes his head, panic setting in. “You can’t say a word. Seriously, a fucking word. They find out, I’m totally deep-fried.”

  I can still hear him pleading after we close the front door behind us. Pulling onto Skyline, George says, “Man, that Kenny was a bleeder. I barely even caught him with my elbow, delicate flower.” He checks his sleeve and grimaces. “This was one of my favorite shirts.”

  62

  Following a single negative experience, starlings and other birds can learn to avoid eating toxic insects. Human culture, conversely, reduces the usefulness of our instincts. Why?

  When I get home, it’s past midnight. Rory is asleep, TV on, sound off. I lay a blanket over him, trying not to wake him, but he rolls over and opens his eyes. “Hey, Mom.”

  “Hey, kiddo. Where’s Caroline?”

  “Her parents came to pick her up.”

  “Really?” I’m mildly surprised, enormously relieved. “What were they like?”

  “Very French.” He yawns, stretches his long arms. “Very formal, but nice.”

  “Was she glad to see them?”

  “Yeah, I guess. Her mom was pretty.”

  I smile. “That bodes well.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Mom, it’s not like I’m going to marry Caroline.”

  “You never know.”

  “I do know. They’re taking Caroline to Paris tomorrow morning. She’s going to finish the school year in France, live with her aunt.”

  “Sorry, bud.”

  “Me too.”

  In the morning, Rory comes down at the usual time, backpack slung over his shoulders. He pours himself a bowl of cereal and joins me at the kitchen table, where I’m nursing my third coffee.

  “You really don’t have to go to school.”

  “What, are you going to homeschool me now?”

  “I don’t think I could handle the math.” What I don’t say is that I feel better having him at home, where I can see him.

  He stirs the Cocoa Puffs until the milk in his bowl turns chocolatey. “I hate this school a little more every day. It’s not the teachers or the kids. It’s the big fat lie of it all. This ridiculous idea that one test cooked up in a lab somewhere can determine our future.”

  “So why go? Maybe there’s another way.”

  “With Caroline gone, I don’t know what else to do.”

  He sets Martin in Space on the table. I still haven’t finished it. Acquired taste, I guess. “Do you ever feel like we left Dad in New York, and he’s waiting for us?”

  “I wish that were true.”

  “I want to go home. That’s where we’re supposed to be.”

  He’s right. It will be heartbreaking to be around all those reminders of Fred, but I finally understand it’s sadder not to be there, to try to avoid the touchstones of our life together. And if Rory wants to go, we go. He earned that.

  “I’ll start working on it today.”

  “Do you mean it?”

  “Promise.”

  His face hardens. “But before we go, you have to finish what you started. The people who took Caroline. You have to make them pay.”

  It feels good to have a plan, a way forward. Having taken care of my dad’s personal things, I can hire someone to sort out what remains. I find a service online to handle the donations and haul the rest away. I’ll hire a full-service agent to prepare the house for sale and put it on the market. Laura Crowell’s business card is around here somewhere. She’ll be delighted to beat Harris Ojai out for the listing.

  “Throw money at the problem,” my more affluent friends back in New York like to say. I never had money to throw at a problem before, but I can put it all on the credit cards for now. Once I sell the house, we’ll be fine. Better than fine.

  I call Kyle but only get his voicemail. Surfing again? Holly? I use my laptop to do a deep dive on Harris Ojai, but online I find nothing helpful. There are dozens of references to how he is the “#1 Real Estate Agent in America”—mostly from sites that are clearly run by Ojai himself—along with pay-to-play profiles in magazines with names like Wealth Insider and Bay Area Elite. Other than that, nothing. It’s as if he just landed on the planet four years ago with vaults full of money, an orange Bentley, and a plastic surgeon on speed dial.

  I send a message to Malia on Confide, asking for additional information. She responds in seconds: Give me a few minutes. BTW, we’re set for Iceland. Good news. Red Vine was spotted out front of the establishment on a trip to Warsaw.

  Probably meeting Y, I type back.

  Yep. A few minutes later a message pings.

  Your guy sure has a strange past for a real estate agent. Macau, Malaysia, Canberra, Canadian citizenship in the name Enrique Malone, a Taiwanese passport, connections to the government of Ghana. The usual OC financial connection. Multiple shell accounts in Singapore.

  What else?

  Here’s where it gets interesting. Forty-seven addresses in your little suburban paradise are registered under his shell companies. I’m attaching the report. Also, two hits from our foreign partners. Arrested at Frankfurt Airport two years ago. Apparently he ate his fake visa before they could get it from him. One other possible incident—under a different name. The Saudis deported him, something about slave labor and his housekeeper. If it’s him, he got twelve lashes.

  Ouch.

  Let’s connect when we get closer to the RV meeting.

  I close out the app and sip my coffee. Part of me wants to pack up the bare essentials, bust Rory out of school, and leave town. Not next week: today. Things are s
o messed up here. At least New York City is the kind of messed up I understand. I could put together a package on Harris Ojai and Rusty and simply leave it for the San Francisco office to unravel. They have plenty of time to cross their t’s and dot their i’s, do the whole thing by the book.

  Of course, it’s more complicated than that. I would need to package it in a way that doesn’t bring any heat down on George. But it’s not only about George. The fact is, I don’t want to let it go. Not after what Rusty did to Caroline. Kenny is one thing. With the company he keeps, the grow, and the fenced electronics in his Daly City house, he probably doesn’t have a shelf life of more than a year or two before he’s in prison, or worse.

  Rusty is different. He’s a predator, a professional. He’s unpredictable, smart. Irredeemable, as George said. Worst of all, he is only partially motivated by money. He loves the game, the theatrics. He gets a thrill out of wreaking havoc and instilling terror in his victims. He’ll never stop being dangerous.

  The phone rings. It’s the secretary at school, Mrs. Brompton, wanting to know why I haven’t called to notify them of Rory’s absence.

  “What absence?”

  “Today.”

  “No, Rory is at school. I dropped him off this morning.”

  “Well, Miss Hawthorne and Mr. Young marked him absent.”

  I can’t breathe.

  “After the test is over, some kids get wanderlust.”

  “That’s not like him. Could you double check?”

  “Ma’am, we are very—”

  I interrupt, my panic growing: “Can you check again? Please. He has to be there.” There’s a long pause, a sigh, chatter in the background. Mrs. Brompton is sending someone to Rory’s second-period class. She puts me on hold. My heart is racing, and I’m stuck listening to a Muzak version of “Sweet Child O’ Mine,” mind spinning.

  A minute later, she comes back on the line. “Looks like you may need to have a talk with your son. Since it’s his first time to cut, I’ll do him a favor and mark it as excused.”

  “But—” My mind is racing.

  I hang up and dial Rory’s number. He doesn’t answer. I leave a message. I call him four more times just in case the phone is on vibrate in his backpack. Nothing. Please, no. I grab the car keys, my messenger bag with my gun and accessories. As I feel the weight of the bag on my shoulder, the horror strikes me full force. I have done the unthinkable: I put my son in danger. I thought he’d be safe. Kobayashi said they needed him. The kids who disappear are the ones who fail, the ones who bring down the scores, not the ones who succeed.

  Why would anyone take Rory? It doesn’t make sense. Unless this is personal. Unless it is payback.

  I drive around the school in concentric circles, finding only a team of gardeners tending the north field. I show them a picture of Rory on my phone. One of them mentions a white van that was parked in their usual spot around the time of the first bell. A big white dude was sitting in the driver’s seat, he says. The other guy thought it might’ve been one of the painters from the gym, but a third guy disagrees. In a land of black Range Rovers, Audis, and Volvos, a lone white van stands out. The third guy saw the same van near the tennis courts, pulling out a minute after the first bell, driving south on Ralston. Where were the police, I wonder. Where was Officer Kyle? All the mornings he’s been assigned traffic circle, and he couldn’t be here this morning?

  I head south down Chateau, unsure what I’m looking for. I call Kyle’s number, but he doesn’t answer, and the outgoing message says his voice mailbox is full. I call GPD and ask for him.

  “Officer Randall is no longer an employee of the GPD.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since yesterday.”

  “He quit?”

  “No. The department was no longer in need of his services.” The line goes dead.

  Shit. They’ve fired him.

  Driving in circles, I find nothing. I dial Rory’s cell phone ten more times. Nothing. I pull over and call George, but he’s still on the plane. I leave another message, explaining the situation. He might tell me to call the San Francisco office immediately, ask for help, no matter how far we bent the rules. And I will, just not yet.

  I can’t call them yet, because I know how it will work. They’ll put dozens of agents on it. They will work it to the exclusion of almost anything else. We’re family, even if I don’t know them, and they’ll do this for me, no question. The organization is a freight train, a powerful force that pushes forward full throttle, shaking the ground beneath it. But, like a freight train, there’s intricate machinery involved, and it takes time to get moving. There’s a chain of command, a protocol, hundreds of moving parts. If I call them now, instead of going out looking for Rory, I’ll be stuck in an office, being interviewed, filling out forms, retelling this long, strange story. I’ve worked this job long enough to know that the next two hours is exactly the time not to be in an office, explaining. I need to find Rory. I have to do this myself.

  I close my eyes for a second, trying to block out the panic, reconnect with my instincts. Still no call from Kyle. Obviously, I can’t call GPD.

  I call Rory’s phone again. Please pick up, please.

  It goes straight to voicemail.

  63

  Peter Brook, one of most important stage directors of the twentieth century, describes four categories for theatrical performances: the deadly, the holy, the rough, and the immediate. Which type of performance is the most relevant for this moment in the zeitgeist?

  I quickly scroll through my emails and pull up the last few from Malia. I download the Clear report and scan the addresses for Harris Ojai. There are so many fake companies it’s difficult to untangle the connections, but the credit report and the cable bills make the place on Rondelay Court the most likely choice for his personal address. The GPS shows it as a cul-de-sac off Skyfarm, somewhere near the top of the hill.

  I race up Ralston and back onto Chateau, the Jeep’s tires squealing as I make the sharp left turn onto Rondelay. I slow down to approach the address quietly. It’s palatial. I pull it up on Zillow, looking for photos: 18,000 square feet, 7 bedrooms, 8.5 bathrooms, guest house, pool, sauna, Jacuzzi, helipad off the south lawn, wine cellar, solar generator room, 10-car garage, movie theater, gym. The house is built on the side of the hill, one floor at street level, with three floors below, hugging the side of the canyon. It looks like there are only two viable entrances, unless I hike up the canyon from below. That would probably be the safest ingress, but I don’t have time. With 18,000 square feet, it would take three SWAT teams to clear the place with any measure of security. I park on the street, slip my gun into the small of my back, and take two additional mags from my messenger bag. I also grab the old carbon fiber baton they gave me at Quantico.

  The driveway is steep and curved, soaring oak trees on both sides. It’s so quiet I can hear the wind whistling through the canyon. The orange Bentley is in the driveway. The garage doors are open to reveal six more luxury cars lined up in a row. Amazon and FedEx boxes litter the front porch. I can hear K-pop music echoing from inside, the bass beat vibrating the windows.

  I approach the front door and try the handle. It’s unlocked. I slip inside. The house is decorated with fussy white furniture, glass tables, lurid gold accents. The smell of cigar smoke permeates the walls. I move through the foyer, the kitchen, the enormous dining room, and an office suite—all empty.

  In the living room, I’m startled by the sight of myself in the huge gilded mirrors. Down a hallway, two bedrooms are side by side, the beds piled high with gold-fringed pillows, price tags still attached. The floors are cluttered with open boxes filled with calendars, mugs, and knickknacks, all bearing Harris Ojai’s face and logo. In every room, a thousand small images of Harris Ojai stare back at me.

  The beat of the K-pop song stops. I stop cold, listening for movement. Seconds later a
new song starts, the vibration from below pounding through my sneakers. I find the stairs and silently make my way down, hand on my gun. On the next level is a second family room, a massive television on the wall tuned to Bloomberg, the ticker scrolling across the screen. Behind a white leather sectional, fitted with recliners and cup holders, is a fully stocked wet bar. Still no one. The music is coming from the floor beneath this one.

  I move methodically through hallways and bedrooms. Inside a mahogany-paneled office, dozens of real estate contracts are stacked on a desk. The computer is on, four monitors, the keyboard between them still warm. Outlook is up, all the passwords unlocked. I move around to get a better look. I scan the names in the inbox—Laura Crowell, Chinese investment companies, something in Cyrillic, and the police chief Jepson. I copy and paste the inbox to a folder that I copy to my alias Dropbox account. Over ten thousand emails. I scan the computer’s file directory structure and move the entire tree titled “Greenfield” over to my box as well.

  Past the office, I find a game room outfitted with a foosball table, billiards, six flat-screen TVs, a row of pinball machines, a layer of dust across everything. Six clocks hung high on the wall show the time in Beijing, Manila, New York, Singapore, Jakarta, and Geneva. At the far end of the room, another staircase.

  I descend. At the bottom, I peer around the partition and see a workout room with wooden floors, a ballet bar, lots of mirrors. A massive screen covers the opposite wall. An aerobics instructor on a live feed is leading a workout session. In the middle of the room: Harris Ojai, clad in a green tracksuit, dripping sweat. He’s facing the screen, grooving to the workout, step two, three, four, arms pumping. The instructor is yelling at Harris, hurling abuses. “You call this a workout? You’re pathetic! Knees up! Core tight! Faster!” She has a headset on, her words booming through the speakers. I don’t know how much of the room she can see, but the mirrors leave me feeling exposed.

  I slip my gun into the holster, pull down the hem of my sweater to conceal it, and try to affect the air of an assistant sheepishly interrupting her boss’s workout session. Ojai, focused on the screen, doesn’t notice me entering the room. I’m six feet behind him when the music stops.