Her hand pointed to the spot where he needed to sign to renew the sponsorship, and she’d prepared an invoice so the bank’s payables department would issue a check.
He brought his pen to the paper and signed.
She flipped the pages back and craned her neck. “I can’t read upside down very well.” She stepped around the desk, and he felt her approach.
Coming next to him, she leaned over the desk, and the smoothness where her jaw joined her neck passed before him.
A part of him recognized that she was too close to him. He knew he should tell her so. The words vaguely formed in his mind.
“Sign here,” she said.
He looked to the paper. Her finger was next to the signature line. His signature would authorize a three-thousand-dollar contribution from BTB’s foundation to a charity caring for indigent families.
But he let his eyes drift again to the skin of her neck where it descended to the collar of her blouse and linger there for a moment, drinking in its texture.
He put the tip of his pen to the paper and scratched his signature above the line.
Brenda flipped the next page and pointed out the dollar amount on the invoice.
“What is that perfume?”
She turned her eyes to him, and he felt the pull of their green, seeing now very closely for the first time their jeweled glistening, and she said a couple of words in French, her breath passing over his cheek a warm caress.
He held her eyes for a moment before nodding. He looked to the file, flipped the next page himself, and signed. “That it?”
She closed the file and stood away from him. He gulped a breath and tapped the pen on the desktop.
She kept her eyes on his. “You have a meeting at CCI with Billy at two, and I confirmed your reservations at Drago for your dinner with Northfield. Seven o’clock, six people.”
“Good. Thanks.”
“There was some filing that backed up. And some reporting was overdue from a couple of your customers, so I called them. Anything else I can take off your plate right now?”
“No. Thanks.”
She turned, and he allowed his eyes to wander over her movement to the door. Finally she passed out of his view.
He brought his hands to his lips and clasped them with his elbows propped on the desk. For a moment he sat silently, the chatter in the suite outside his office suddenly alien to his ears. He ignored the draw of the credits he needed to review for his team, the e-mails piling up, the pressure of preparation for upcoming meetings and the competition with Vince—all of it now somehow remote.
He forced his eyes to the picture of Serena. On a sloop in the Caribbean five years ago, Serena sat on the deck next to him, her tanned legs stretched out toward the camera, one arm around his back, another hand on his chest. They were on their honeymoon, drunk with the freshness of their love, their smiles reflecting its intensity, its singularity. He remembered that day on the boat, the feel of her next to him in the Caribbean sun, the press of her against him as the boat lifted and swayed in the waves with the shove of the wind behind. At the resort that night over dinner, conversation lagging from fatigue after their day in the sun, he had looked into her and she into him, the dining room crowded but the two of them isolated and removed in their love, untouchable.
But only a few months later, their marriage began to feel like a corporate merger. They would pass in the hallway in the mornings, off for meetings or to their offices on opposite ends of the Santa Monica Freeway to slug through ten- and twelve-hour days. And in the few evenings when they were both home, they were so tired from putting out fires all day that they had nothing left for one another. After the first year, they stopped even talking about going away together; their trips never panned out. They took their meals with clients or separately. Even on weekends the intensity of their schedules pulled them apart.
They joked about it at first. When they resorted to punching appointments into their calendars to confirm their good intentions, Jason felt a sense of desperation over where they were headed. He had to break their dates nearly as often as Serena, but that didn’t stop his rising resentment over her work’s demands. He refused to allow himself to reveal that he was jealous of her job, but his jealousy turned uglier when he began to suspect that there was more to her trips than the business she claimed. The few calls she made from the road before the end were interrupted by background noise that sounded nothing like a business meeting. The last phone message, with the muffled voice of her boss in the background, had nearly driven him mad.
Staring at the empty doorway now, he twisted his wedding band. It was loose enough that sometimes it nearly fell off when he washed his hands. He slid it to the tip of his ring finger and let it dangle there, tapping at it with his pinky. A smooth ring of skin was noticeable on his ring finger if he looked very carefully, like a ghost of a commitment. Five years.
His eyes returned to the picture. The memory of that day and the night that had followed, so filled with tenderness and promise, were tainted now. She had shifted her affections to someone else. Had all their feelings for one another been a lie? In the picture, she embraced him with one arm, her other hand against him. Even the certainty of her touch now seemed false.
He reached for the frame. On his left hand, the wedding band dangled from his fingertip. In his right hand was the picture. He took a breath.
His phone rang, and he glanced at the readout. The loan-operations department was trying to reach him.
Serena’s number was first on his speed dial. He could have her office on the phone in a few seconds.
She hadn’t claimed she was innocent, hadn’t defended herself at all. It was as good as an admission of guilt. Just a scornful frown and a shake of her head. Before she pivoted to walk out the door, all she said was, “You want me, you call me.”
He held the picture flat and tapped his ring finger on the glass. His wedding band rattled onto it and he regarded the gold circle it made on the image. The ring was now nothing more than a symbol of an unfaithful wife, of broken vows.
The ring sliding on the glass, he shoved the picture in a desk drawer and slammed it shut.
14
The moon like a warty cat’s eye searched with its reflected glare, but it couldn’t reach Flip under the eaves of the house. No clouds hampered the moon’s glow and he hated it, its unremitting shine, its nightly waxing like a widening eyeball staring at him, and he hated the stars that attended it too. Their patterned glistening only reminded him of nights staring at them out of a cage. He wanted them all wiped away. He would strike them from the sky if he could.
The house was silent and in darkness. Windows like rectangular clefts gaped with a deeper blackness than the stucco face above him. He’d watched it from across the street and walked past it a dozen times. It was empty. So why did he delay?
He knew. He didn’t want awareness of the reasons to surface in his mind, but he knew. It was the ghostly sensation in his knuckles that arose whenever he thought of the boy. As if he’d just hit him, his knuckles remembered the flat concussion and sink of the blow, the boy’s face appearing as a specter in his mind even now.
He wrenched his lips. Hatred of his weakness flared his nostrils, and in defiance of it he rose from the brush surrounding the house.
The moonlight was a hateful touch. He stepped quickly around the edge of the house, found the circuit box and switched the main breaker off. His pocket bulged with tools, and he would need them, because the house was locked tight as a vault. Penlight in his mouth, he addressed a window, pried the screen away and went to work angling the flattened implement toward the lock. In thirty seconds both locks were free and he slid the window open.
He listened. No sound rose from the house. He moved the curtains aside and stretched his leg over the sill and inside.
His back to the wall, his chest hammered. Gone was the confidence he’d always felt at these moments, the sense of taking ownership and enjoying the power of this in
vasion. It was replaced with dread.
He froze against the wall inside the banker’s house, lips wringing, eyes darting, clammy hands pressed flat against wainscoting, waiting for the feeling to pass.
* * *
The valet brought the Monroes’ Range Rover around first, and Jason shook Ed’s hand.
“Thanks for dinner, Ed.”
“My pleasure. Tell Serena no excuses next time.” He pumped Jason’s hand and released it so his wife could take it with her dainty grip.
The Range Rover crept off, and the next valet drove up in the Sloans’ Mercedes.
Jason said to Northfield’s CFO, “Keep me posted on the timing of that offering, Randy.”
“Will do. We’ll try to keep most of our cash with BTB. At least for a while.” Randy stepped closer, holding on to Jason’s hand like a lover. “We’re looking at more acquisitions, Jason. Don’t worry. We’ll go through the cash soon enough, and we’ll be right back at the well for more credit. We can’t be out of debt too long.”
“I’ve always appreciated your appetite.”
With a conspiratorial wink, Randy slid down into the Mercedes. His wife blew Jason a kiss and waved.
Jason sifted through his currency for a five for the valet. He heard the purr of his BMW rolling up and watched it, enjoying the shape and blue tint of the headlights and the spin of the glinting chrome wheels. The valet stepped out, and the engine droned just right.
Jason got in and nearly jammed his knee into the dashboard. Short valet. His fingers found the switch on the side of the seat and it inched backward so he could angle his leg under the steering wheel. He slammed the door and shifted.
Ten o’clock at night, and traffic was still heavy on Santa Monica Boulevard. As he accelerated into the flow, a Hummer’s wide eyeballs grew in his rearview mirror, high and dazzling, washing the whole cab of his BMW in brightness and seeping into the side mirror, pounding his eyes.
He changed lanes, and the Hummer moved next to him, high as a house. A glance at the driver revealed a woman perched up there, thirty-something, ponytail and upturned nose. As she passed him, he saw the padded plastic of a kid’s car seat in back, empty. His mind pieced together this information, slotted her and her hubby in the same category he and Serena planned to occupy one day.
Or used to.
He downshifted and felt the engine whine, then surged around a Honda crouched around its tires by the weight of four passengers.
His house would be silent. Not even a housecat’s distant appreciation of his arrival.
A sign shaped like a blue shield with a red bar across the top announced that he could reach the 10 freeway by making a left down Fourth Street. He shifted and eased into the turn and probed his mind for something to take his thoughts away from the emptiness of the house.
He immediately fastened on the bombshell the Northfield management team had dropped on him over dinner. A twenty-three-million-dollar payoff. The idea of it knotted him up. He could feel the impact of it on his numbers, dropping his division’s loan totals by—what?— five percent. It would set his growth back again. Runoff of his loans was like a seeping wound. You had to keep pressure on it or pretty soon you got weak and your earnings grew faint.
He made his left and took the on-ramp, pushing the Bimmer hard, shifting like it would speed him away from Vince’s competition, and for a moment it worked, the power of the engine seeming to lift the tires off the pavement, the car jumping with each pop of the clutch, engine screaming to the top of second, then surging into third, and he was faster than the flow of traffic by the time he reached the end of the on-ramp. He sped into fourth, passing a semi and a lumbering SUV and gliding across the lanes like a gazelle among wildebeests.
* * *
Flip forced himself away from the wall, bringing with his jacket the frame of a picture that rattled back to its place, dangling crookedly. With eyes accustomed to the darkness, he regarded it, an off-kilter rectangle offending the other dark angles of the room. He brought a gloved hand up to the corner of the frame and righted it.
Facing the blocky shapes of the kitchen, he looked over the shadowed room. The countertops hosted obscure contours of appliances he tried to associate. A blender, a coffeemaker. A toaster. A bowl with apples or oranges huddling inside. A knife rack angling the handles upward for unsheathing.
He turned.
The staircase ramped upward, beckoning him into greater blackness. He ran his glove along the banister, rising into the place where the bedrooms would be.
He caught himself rushing. He wanted out of here. He wanted to be back out in the expansive night. The walls seemed to crowd him.
Slow down. Slow. This will be easy.
But still his heart leaped in his chest, making the blood pound in his temples. Out, out—he wanted out.
Three bedrooms vied for his attention. In his penlight’s glow, he eyed each one. The larger room with the king-size bed and walk-in closet, with its private bath and double sinks—this would be the one. This was the bedroom of a banker and a lawyer.
* * *
Jason steered the BMW down the off-ramp, glided into the turn clutch in, and downshifted, engaging the engine to rev and drop his speed. Stopped alone at the light at the off-ramp’s terminus, he felt the idle through his back and rump, smooth power constrained. He wiggled the gear shift absently, then plunged it into first and waited for the green.
Nearly ten o’clock now.
He got his light and drove onto Robertson, northbound, past Hamilton High. He’d hoped for green lights this time of night, but after being stopped twice, he made a left and began hopping street to street, climbing the hills toward Beverlywood. He managed the gears approaching each speed bump and stop sign like a hurdler would manage his strides, slowing for the bumps just enough to avoid bottoming out and tapping the brake in deference to the stop lines in the street before gliding past into each empty intersection.
He made his right onto Bagley, and after a quick left on David, steered onto Guthrie and entered his neighborhood. Slowing, he loosened himself from his seat belt and let it snap into place behind his shoulder, feeling the familiarity of his street settle his nerves like it always did.
He reached up to the visor to trigger the garage-door opener and pressed the button as he brought the wheels around to enter the driveway.
The garage door faced him, unmoving. He pressed the button again.
Nothing.
What now?
The pulled the car right up to the garage, lights reflecting straight back from the panel of the door, and turned to the visor and crushed the button five times. The garage door stood stubbornly before him.
He cranked the key to switch off the engine and jerked the parking brake on. Teeth grinding, he stepped out and slammed the door, marching around to the front door while he sifted his keychain for the door key he rarely used.
No porch light. The street light nearby was enfolded by a tree, so he had to tilt the keys until he found the silver gleam of the one he wanted. Its nose blindly poked for the keyhole until it finally slipped in. He turned it and opened the door, one hand reaching inside for the switch that would turn on the light in the foyer.
His fingers found it, and he flicked it up. Only darkness.
* * *
Flip rose.
A light switch clicked downstairs again and again, as if electricity could be pumped in by the motion. A voice cursed.
Flip stole to the bedroom door. His hands flexed, fingers tense, fisting. Flaring nerves drove his fears aside, and the old power overtook him.
Footsteps paced on tile downstairs. Shuffled uncertainly.
More footsteps.
The front door slammed. Silence.
For a moment, Flip stood, undecided. His eyes scanned the black room for places to hide.
Instead, he moved into the hallway, to the stairs. Hearing nothing, he descended. At the base of the staircase he paused. His ears searched for sound.
He d
ucked toward the back of the house.
A whirring noise stopped him. He turned. It was the refrigerator cutting on. In the kitchen, a clock flashed 12:00 incessantly in the face of a microwave oven.
Outside, through the sheer curtains, he could see landscape lights glowing.
* * *
Jason faced the circuit-breaker box.
His feet would not move.
Kathy’s words came to his mind. The night her boy was killed. Dreaming someone was in her room. The power turned off the next morning.
He turned his head. His spine felt like it was outside his back and naked to the wind.
He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. He could call 911.
And say what? Ask LAPD to swing by because his circuit breaker tripped? He tried to laugh. It came out of his nose in shaky puffs.
He straightened. Walked from the breaker box and went to his car.
Settling in, he reached up for the garage-door opener.
This time the door obeyed, rising like a huge window shade to reveal the empty concrete floor missing Serena’s Mercedes.
He started the BMW and put it in gear, drove forward into the garage, and switched off the engine.
Not moving from the seat, he stared at the door leading to the house. The flat panel of it, doorknob at its edge, revealed nothing of what might lurk beyond it. White familiarity he’d passed through ten thousand times without a thought now reflected his dread.
This is stupid.
He clawed at the handle and sprang the car door open. It slammed closed with the same solid thud he’d loved the first time he drove the sedan.
The door beckoned, and he approached. His hand began to rise to the button that would close the big garage door behind him, but he restrained it. He brought it instead to the knob of the smaller door before him. Felt the friendly ball of it in his hand cool. He turned it.
The gears inside meshed, the latch cleared the jamb. He eased it forward.
A creak like a raven’s crowded the silence as the hinges protested against his entry. He moved ahead, into the space behind the kitchen. He stood in the doorway, the night behind him outside the garage like the promise of escape, and he leaned inside to bring his face around the edge of the door.
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