I say, “Ignore her. At that distance, she’s seeing more of her own reflection than she is of us. Keep at it.”
Two slides later, Savannah ambles from the rail to the grill island, ten feet from the office windows. She squats in front of the little fridge and grabs a bottle of water.
One of the guys says, “Is she too close?”
The dude in black says, “Not from where I’m sitting.”
The redhead growls, “Pig.”
I say, “Knock it off. Look at the slide, your computer, or me, not her. She can see us, but she can’t hear us.” I tested it; she can’t. “This is why we’re putting on this show.”
Savannah leans back against the tile counter next to the grill, facing us.
The next slide’s the project timeline for San Salvador II, a mixed-use development next to the state university at the edge of downtown San Jose. There’s a lot of red; it’s in trouble. Looking in from outside, Savannah should see a head-knocking session about a project that keeps landing in the toilet. We’re really debating Deadpool versus Captain America: Civil War. I like these guys; four of the six come down on Deadpool’s side. I keep half an eye on Savannah as she nips at her water and peers straight at me.
More slides—get-well strategies, upcoming milestones, action items. Another, more successful project comes along. We move on to Zootopia versus The Jungle Book (apparently everybody except Allyson has kids). The redhead does a dead-on impression of the DMV sloth from Zootopia that gets a laugh out of all of us, even Allyson. My laugh dies in my throat—this is a business meeting. Should we be laughing? Did Savannah see it?
Her eyebrows are popped high. She empties her bottle, twists on the cap, then strolls back to the table and her laptop.
I sigh once she sits. “We’re clear. Take ten, guys.”
An Allyson-eyebrow twitch catches my eye. She inclines her head toward me just a touch. That’s like a high-five from anybody else.
Allyson’s the first to return to the room. She paces to the window next to my desk, where I’m massaging my knees. She’s wearing a black leather bolero jacket over a fitted knee-length scarlet dress with unusual slanted black color blocks.
I ask, “Why are you here?”
“I volunteered to be your extra.” A perfectly sculpted eyebrow arches. “Is that a problem?”
This is the first time I’ve seen or spoken to her since Vail. I’m waiting for the claws to come out. “I know you volunteered. I didn’t know you do this kind of thing.”
“It’s good for the associates to see me do the work.” Allyson’s voice is carefully neutral. “This is also my chance to see what you’ve spent so much of the client’s money on.” Something tells me that’s the real reason. “I’d appreciate a tour of the house if you can tear yourself away.”
“Sure. This afternoon?” She nods. “You’re not here just for this, are you? I mean, there’s some other reason you’re in L.A.?”
“Of course. I’m meeting with clients. Is four convenient?”
A guy-associate drifts into the room. I say, “Four’s fine.”
The next forty minutes pass slowly. Bandineau and Savannah stroll onto the patio at twenty to ten. We jump into work mode again. They spend ten minutes, then leave.
At 10:05 I say, “Okay, we’re done. Remember your lines. Ignore the marks unless they engage you. You need to be out in—” I check the time on my phone “—eight minutes. Ready?”
They pack their laptops and briefcases. The dude in black scoops up the roll of plans. Their mugs and breakfast plates stay on the table. We all stream out the door, having spirited discussions about Important Business. They talk mostly to each other, but when they talk to me, they make it clear that I’m the boss. Savannah and Bandineau watch from the living room.
Five extras file into the two SUVs they came here in. I wave as they go. Allyson stands close to me on the front step, murmurs, “Acceptable work. I’ll return at four,” then rips away in a black Audi ragtop.
I check my phone. Group B texted 2 mins about thirty seconds ago. So far, so good.
Bandineau’s in a navy-blue suit, white shirt and sober tie. Trying to look respectable for his LACMA meeting, no doubt. He shakes my hand when I get to him. “Great to see you again, Rick. Your house is perfect. I love it.”
Time to remind him who Hoskins is. “You’d say that if it was a studio apartment.” I laugh once—just kidding. “Thanks. Savannah’s showed you around?”
“I sure have.” There’s not a flicker in her face that shows anything unusual happened earlier. “You and your people looked like you were having fun in there.”
“It was a meeting, not a death march. I see you got coffee. Need anything else?”
Savannah smiles. “Just you.” A tiny bit of flirt on that.
Bandineau says, “Savannah tells me you have a very special painting in your office. I’d love to see it. Can you show us?”
I check my phone. “Not right this minute. Somebody’s coming any second now, and I need to take care of him. We’ll be in the office for a few minutes, then I’m all yours for the rest of the day.” The driveway fills with cars. “Here they are. Excuse me.”
A brown Crown Victoria with spotlights next to the side-view mirrors pulls into the forecourt. A black GMC Yukon’s right behind it. The guy who exits the Crown Vic has an off-the-rack black suit, very little hair, and a curled wire coming out of his ear. The guy he lets out of the SUV is tall and slender, in a sincere blue suit, white shirt, and shiny purple tie. A middle-aged woman with a black bob and a vivid sapphire suit follows. Purple and Sapphire stride to the front door, where I am.
“Rick!” He gives me a two-handed politician handshake. He looks like a somewhat-better-looking-than-average doctor with gray at his temples. “Nice to see you again.”
“Eric. Come on in.” I nod to the woman, who carries a leather day planner. “Janet.”
“Mr. Hoskins.”
Then I introduce Savannah and Bandineau to the mayor of Los Angeles.
Well… sort of.
Tom Dykstra was a stand-up comic going nowhere until somebody told him he looks exactly like the mayor. Ever since, he’s been making bank doing a routine at birthday parties and wedding receptions. Olivia says he didn’t ask questions once she told him what he’d get paid.
Savannah shakes Dykstra’s hand, then passes him her card. “If you need any advice about putting art in the city’s buildings, please call me. I’d be happy to help.”
“The Mayor” smiles. “That’s a change—someone who wants to work for the city.” He turns to Bandineau. “You’re from San Francisco?”
“That’s right, Your Honor.”
“Welcome to California, then.” He turns to me. “What do you have for me, Rick?”
“Come right this way. How long are you here?”
“Fifteen, max. I have a guest lecture at UCLA.”
We disappear into the office and shut the door, letting Savannah and Bandineau absorb what they just saw. If they look outside, they’ll see three cop-looking guys milling around the cars (our addition to Dykstra’s act). Gracie will keep them from getting too close to the office.
Inside, “Janet” keeps track of the time while Dykstra tells about a bar mitzvah he did a few days ago in the Valley. He gets to the part where he’d started singing “I Love L.A.” to the crowd when she says, “We have to go.”
Back to the front doors. “It’s a great project, Rick. I hope we can get it built.”
“Can you lean on the Council for me?”
Dykstra holds up his hands. “I’d love to, but the Council’s the Council. You know how that goes.” He shakes again with Savannah and Bandineau, who look stunned. “Savannah, right? And Jim? Good to meet you. Enjoy my city.”
The mini-motorcade leaves. My heart’s going nuts.
Bandineau pats my shoulder. “Rick, I don’t mind saying that I’m very impressed.”
It worked. It worked. Sonovabitch, it worked!
Chapter 21
We leave the house around eleven after Bandineau has a good, long look at my paintings, my pots, and my books. Having Savannah hover around me, talking about the artists—I guess she had time to do some homework yesterday by the pool—seems to soften him up. He likes the story about my mom.
I drive them to the Miracle Mile in my Maserati Quattroporte (I love saying that), a low-slung, wine-red, four-door sedan that goes like a cheetah on meth. We have an early lunch at Canter’s on Fairfax, an L.A. institution with some of the best comfort food in Southern California. I can use the comfort for the next play in this game.
The admin offices for the Los Angeles County Museum of Art aren’t actually at the museum; they’re across the street in 5900 Wilshire, a late-‘60s concrete-and-glass skyscraper. I lead Savannah and Bandineau to the fourteenth floor like I go there all the time, even though I’ve never been in the place. The museum’s offices are spare, shiny, and white, with fire-engine red public furniture and accents. The receptionist calls to announce us.
I tell Bandineau, “You’re meeting the Deputy Director for Curatorial and Planning, Lars Renncroft. This really isn’t in his lane, but he may bring in some other people. It’s up to him. He’s a good guy—just play straight with him and he’ll hear you out. Okay?”
“Of course.” Bandineau fiddles with the handle of his black leather briefcase. He’s set a foot-square blond-wood box on the reception desk; I expect there’s a Nam Ton pot inside. The way his eyes dart around the place makes me think he’s nervous, which would be a first.
He’s not the only one who’s nervous. I’m assuming Olivia or Allyson briefed Renncroft on who I’m supposed to be. I hope he doesn’t recognize who I really am, or if he does, he keeps it to himself. I hope he looks like his photo on the museum website.
He does. Renncroft’s tall and gangly, wearing a medium-gray suit that doesn’t quite make him look like a scarecrow. He’s gray around the sides and bald on top with a gray goatee to make up for it. When he sees me, he pauses, looking a little lost. Not good.
I hold out my hand. “Afternoon, Lars. Good to see you again.”
He snaps out of it, sort of. “It’s been a long time, Mr. Hoskins.” Saying this takes a couple swallows. “Welcome back.” He has a reedy voice and the wimpy guy-in-the-arts-business handshake. His hand’s trembling. What’d Allyson do to him?
“Thanks for making time.”
Introductions all around. Savannah lays a business card on him, just like she did with “the Mayor.” Bandineau turns on his Chamber-of-Commerce smile.
I say, “Lars, thanks again for taking this meeting. I’ll leave Jim with you. I want to take Savannah across the street to see some more of my collection.”
Renncroft bends a few degrees toward me, like a tiny bow. “Of course. Mr. Bandineau, please come with me.”
Savannah sidles up to me. “Alone at last.” A tiny smile tugs at the corners of her mouth.
“We’re in public. We have to behave.”
She scrunches her nose at me. “Spoilsport.”
I share a dual museum membership with Chloe, so I don’t have to buy tickets to get into the modernist William Pereira-designed Ahmanson Building, where the European and Southeast Asian collections live.
We go first to the European art exhibits on the third floor. We stroll through the white-walled nineteenth century galleries and talk about the paintings. She stops to smile at a Degas bronze and coo about the pyrotechnics in a Cézanne painting of trees.
“Oh. Here’s one of mine.” Imagine that. I point to one of Peter-Severin Krøyer’s Skagen beach scenes, a diagonal sweep of golden sand with a gentle sea washing along the edges and a fishing boat under sail in the distance.
“Really?” Savannah bends to read the label. “Fontana Collection? That’s you?”
Not exactly. It’s somebody else’s shell company. A Google search brings up exactly three valid hits, all for paintings in LACMA’s collection. “It’s one of the names I use.”
She shakes her head.
That’s when I notice a familiar face at the gallery’s far end. I recognize her because (a) she’s a luscious brunette I used to enjoy looking at, and (b) she was a regular visitor at Heibrück Pacific. She was so insistent that we let her buy a Meissonier painting from the south of France that we didn’t have the heart to tell her the artist’s flying-M signature was considerably younger than she was. Did she ever find out?
I take Savannah’s hand and pull her around so our backs are to my possibly disgruntled former client. “Come on, I’ll show you another one.”
She doesn’t object—the holding-hands part probably helps—so I lead her into the gallery next door. The next Fontana Collection painting is a Pissarro cityscape about halfway up on the right. I try to keep an eye out for the brunette without looking like I lost something.
Savannah, of course, wants to study all the busy little people and carriages. I can’t goose her along without a good reason, so I stand a bit behind her and tell her factoids about Pissarro while I watch for a possible disaster.
Which arrives after a few moments. The brunette—Candace, her name’s Candace—drifts into the gallery from the direction we need to leave through.
I turn so all she’ll see is my back. There’s no reason Candace should recognize my back. I always wore a suit jacket or blazer in the gallery. Today I’m wearing a lapis sportshirt. Still.
Savannah finally finishes with the Pissarro and turns to me with a cute semi-mischievous smile. “So, where’s the next one?”
I’m distracted enough to not pick up on her question. “Next what?”
“The next painting of yours? I mean, that’s why we’re here, right? So you can show off—” she holds up her thumb and forefinger a fraction of an inch apart “—just a little?”
“Not… really.” A brunette with roughly the same hair passes by my right shoulder, maybe a foot away. My heart goes sideways until I notice her shirt’s wrong. Which means Candace is still behind me. “I think the third one’s off display now.”
Savannah’s smile gets bigger. “Let’s look for it. Make it a treasure hunt.”
“No, that’s okay. The Asian art’s upstairs. Let’s go take a look.”
She twitches her nose. “Uh… not yet. I want to finish in here first. See something different.” Now she takes my hand and pulls. “Come on.”
When she pulls me around, I’m braced to go face-to-face with my former client. But Candace’s over on the other side of the gallery, examining one of Monet’s water-lily paintings. I can keep breathing for a few moments. With any luck, nothing will catch Savannah’s eye and we can slip out while Candace is distracted.
Of course, Savannah stops two canvases up. “Ooh, a Monet. I know this one.”
It’s two women in the woods, one painting, the other reading, the usual loose brushwork and Monet’s attention to the grass and trees. Savannah pulls her phone from her purse, leans into the label, and starts tapping her screen.
I glance over my shoulder at Candace, who’s in a sky-blue sleeveless blouse tucked into very nicely-filled stretch jeans. She stands with her hip cocked and a hand holding something to her ear. I figure it’s a phone until she pushes back some hair, uncovering an audioguide handset. Good—maybe it’ll keep her occupied.
Savannah says, “They’re both Monet’s stepdaughters.”
I turn to see her point at the women. “So it’s a family portrait, then.”
“Uh-huh. It says that she’s—” she points to the painter “—the only one of the children who became interested in art. Can you imagine that? Growing up with Claude Monet and not being interested in art?”
I can, but that’s not what’s got my attention. I glance at the label and notice the little headphone symbol in the corner next to a number. This painting’s on the audioguide tour.
Savannah says, “I remember
the story now. Her father was one of Monet’s patrons…”
I glance over my shoulder. Candace is turning toward me. I face forward again and try to disappear. It doesn’t work.
“… and then Ernest moved to Paris…”
I try to look interested in the painting while Savannah narrates the soap opera. I sneak a peek at the canvas to my left—a landscape with a town in the distance, also by Monet—hoping to see the headphone symbol over there, too. I don’t.
“…Then Monet’s wife died…”
Please get to the end. Please.
Candace steps next to Savannah’s other side. She thumbs in a number on the audioguide’s keypad, swings her hair away from her left ear, and raises the handset. She’s still as lovely as she was back then. There’s no ring on her left hand anymore. Is she now the ex-Mrs. Whoever?
I snap my head forward so I don’t stare. I’m told I helped convict nineteen gallery owners, dealers, and collectors with my testimony, and caused at least three divorces and two suicides. I’m not proud of that (especially the suicides); I did it to save my own skin. Was Candace one of those divorces? She did the buying—her husband just gave her the checkbook. She didn’t know a lot about art. It was easy to rook her, like fishing for koi with depth charges.
Why did we do that? She didn’t offend us, like some of our clients did. We did it because we could. A shitty reason, looking back.
This is the first time I’ve seen one of my ex-clients since I got out. If she confronts me, she’ll blow my cover. But more than that… what do I say? Sorry? Nothing personal?
Is there anything I can say?
Fucking stop.
“… and that’s how they got to be Monet’s stepdaughters.”
It takes a moment to notice that Savannah’s stopped talking. I don’t dare look her way; Candace’s over there. “How do you remember that?”
“I don’t know. The prof told us stories about the artists so they’d be more real to us, and a few stuck in my head. Some of the artists had amazing private lives.”
Chasing Clay (The DeWitt Agency Files Book 3) Page 13