Beach Lawyer (Beach Lawyer Series)

by Avery Duff

  “I believe we’ll have results by the twenty-sixth of this month.”

  “Two weeks from now?” she asked.

  “Give or take. That’s the big day,” he said.

  “What happens on the twenty-sixth?” she asked.

  “Can’t tell you.”

  “Oh,” she said. “You a member of a secret government organization?”

  “That is correct. Undercover.”

  “That explains the Escort,” she said.

  Other than that, she wasn’t interested. That was good for now, but her lack of interest worried him. Clients could change their minds, turn on a dime, leave town, so if and when she did, he had already prepared for it.

  As far as Gia was concerned? Following her around the Westside and Beverly Hills, he found that his questions about her remained unanswered. Unemployed, she still managed to drop $500 a day. Shopping, lunches, spa visits, dropping by her bank. The only person with a more boring life?

  Me, he decided. A boring guy following a beautiful woman with a boring life.

  That changed about one week in. One night he was about to call it quits when a guy showed up at Gia’s in a Lamborghini. Got out, engine idling, posing. Slick hair, Ryan Seacrest–cut jacket, he didn’t bother opening her door when she got in. No way his Escort could keep up with Lambo Boy, so Robert dozed off until a slamming car door woke him.

  It was Leslie, getting out of her car, taking a seat on Gia’s front steps. Three minutes later, Gia rolled up in an Uber SUV, got out, laughing. Leslie stood up, laughing, too, reading a text—from Gia, no doubt.

  A loser date for Gia, he guessed. The women had drinks on the porch, then took it inside. Two hours later, the lights went off. When he left at 11:00 p.m., Leslie was still there.

  “Boring,” he said, driving away. But now, it was down to just him.

  The next day at noon, the man at the counter of the rental-car lot told Robert it would be two hours before his blue Focus was ready. That Focus was his stealth replacement for the white Escort. He decided to walk to the bookstore, but by the time he made it there, Alison was gone.

  As he was about to text her, the owner said, “She might be there,” pointing at that jammed bulletin board. “Yoga,” she added.

  A Yoga With Sonya flyer was posted in the clutter, so he jogged over to the given address on Amoroso, five blocks inland from the beach. Lululemoned yogistas streamed from one end of Amoroso like butterflies. Couple of guys, mostly women. He followed their trail back to Sonya’s vine-covered, rambling wooden house halfway up the block.

  Looked like Alison was the last to leave, standing in the yard with a fifty-year-old woman—Sonya, he guessed, lean and otherworldly with a dazzling mane of silver hair. The women embraced, and as Sonya headed inside, Robert opened her front gate for Alison. Unlike the others, she wore a sweated-through, faded ’Canes sweatshirt and tight stretch shorts.

  She was surprised to see him. “Thought you were picking up your Tesla rental?”

  “Ejector seat wasn’t ready. Boss lady said you might be over here. You look . . . relaxed.” He meant beautiful, because she was. She toweled off as they walked down the street toward her car. “Didn’t know you did yoga.”

  “Practice yoga,” she said. “I’m still a novice. It’s my escape. I’d never get by without it. You know, every time I come here, get into it, start to really relax, it always makes me think about what we’re doing.”

  “How so?” he asked, hoping he guessed wrong about where this was headed.

  “Some nights I still dream about what happened. Don’t get me wrong, not bad dreams, but it makes me remember Brian, and my mom and dad, and pretty soon, I’m in a place I don’t want to be. To live. A place where I don’t want to live. And you’re following this woman around, spying on her? And it’s all really . . . I don’t know.”

  Robert didn’t want to tell her about Gia lying to him. It was too hard to explain. When he got right down to it, he wasn’t sure he could explain it to himself.

  “I hear you,” he said. “But I know she’s hiding something.”

  “But is she hiding stuff about him?”

  “Yes,” he said. “She definitely is,” but he knew he couldn’t prove it even as he said it. “Would you drop by my apartment after work?”

  They stopped beside her LeBaron—top down, those zebra seat covers. “Sure,” she said.

  “Great, use the back gate,” he said, already jogging down the street before she changed her mind.

  Late that afternoon, Alison knocked on his door. When he let her in, she said, “There’s a man parked in back of your house.”

  “It’s all right, I know him,” he said. “Come in, have a seat.”

  She looked around at his Spartan surroundings, took a seat on the couch. A closed legal folder and a pen rested on the coffee table in front of her.

  “Water?” he asked.

  “Sure.”

  He went into the kitchen, out of sight. On the mantel was the prom-night photo of Rosalind and him, among others. It caught her eye.

  “Apple? Orange?” she heard him ask.

  “Orange, thanks,” she said.

  She went to the mantel, picked up the photograph, and took a closer look. “This your girlfriend?” she asked.

  He came to the door, peeling her orange. “Rosalind. My sister,” he told her and went back into the kitchen.

  “Loser takes sister to the prom?” she asked, smiling.

  “Right after Dad took that, I drove her to her boyfriend’s house.”

  “Pretty. Does she still live up north?”

  He came back in. He sat down on the couch, put her bottled water and sectioned orange plate on the coffee table.

  “No,” he told her. “She died.”

  She put the picture back on the mantel and sat beside him. “She’s so young. What happened? Sorry, it’s not my—”

  “That’s okay,” he said. “People ask.”

  He gathered himself then. “She was assaulted, raped, same night that picture was taken.”

  “God, you’re kidding.”

  “Her boyfriend drank too much, pulled off the road, didn’t want to drive drunk. But they got in a fight. She started walking home and on the way . . . They never found the guy. A deviant passing through town was what the cops said. After that, she got deep into drugs in college, overdosed her sophomore year and . . . all the rest.”

  “I’m sorry. What about her boyfriend?”

  “At first, I wanted to kill him, but it wasn’t his fault. He was never the same, either. Went to San Francisco and after that, who knows?”

  “Is that why you went to law school?” she asked.

  “No, I’m a lawyer because I didn’t want to farm. And I’m not a crusader, but I talk to Rosalind sometimes, ask her advice. Stupid stuff like that.”

  “It’s not stupid,” she said. “Show me,” pointing to the folder.

  He opened it and showed her the document inside. “This power of attorney, if you sign it, lets me take care of whatever needs to be done in your case. Anything and everything, all the way down to settling the case for you.”

  She started to speak. He stopped her, pointed to a clause in the document. “See this section right here?”

  “Sure. Termination,” she said.

  “Read it, would you mind? I made sure it was very clear.”

  After she finished, she looked up. “I can end it anytime I want, right?”

  “Anytime you want for any reason or for no reason at all. All you have to do is let me know in writing. An e-mail to me will do the trick.”

  She was nodding.

  “If you sign this, you can put the lawsuit out of your mind. There’s nothing for you to do. At all. But it’s up to you.”

  She stared at the mantel. At his prom-night photo. She reached for the pen.

  “Not yet, hang on,” he said and stood up. “Guy in the alley’s a mobile notary, needs to witness your signature.” He walked to the windo
w, called down the notary, then told her, “You won’t regret this, Alison.”

  “Nail Jack Pierce to the wall, all right?”

  “Nail him,” he said. “Will do.”

  They heard the notary’s footfall on his wooden stairs.

  CHAPTER 16

  Robert imagined Gia’s red-lacquered fingernails clutching a gearshift as she grabbed second gear ahead of him in her Austin-Healey roadster. She roared north on Pacific Coast Highway past Malibu Country Mart, and before Pepperdine U, she whipped a right turn. A minute later, she cruised up Malibu Canyon Road, a two-lane blacktop throwback to the fifties.

  Trailing behind her, Robert muscled his blue Focus to keep up. Lucky he hadn’t missed her altogether back in Brentwood. Just as he’d approached her house, she flew past him in the Healey. He’d turned around, spotted her on San Vicente, caught up with her on Entrada heading north on PCH toward Malibu, so he lagged her up the coast.

  PCH. Where Frankie and Annette and Gidget hung out; what Dinah Shore meant when she invited the world to see the USA in a Chevrolet; and where Thelma Todd died in a hail of gangland bullets outside her own after-hours joint.

  After turning onto Malibu Canyon Road, the Healey and the Focus were the only two cars headed inland, so he had to hang even farther back on the two-lane. So far back that a truck pulling a horse trailer got between them. That worked for a mile or two, but she was getting too far ahead, and on the next straightaway, he made his move. Bad news for him. It was a Focus move, and halfway past the truck, he glimpsed the Healey roaring right, down a side road.

  A quarter mile later, he turned around and floored it back toward PCH. And there was that turn she took: Piuma Road. He took it but had lost a lot of ground. On his navigation map: twists and turns ahead for ten miles. As he was starting to think she was out for a spin, putting her roadster through its paces, he caught a car in his rearview. Coming up fast.

  As it sped past, Robert caught a glimpse of the driver: Jack Pierce.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said, slamming his steering wheel.

  Five hundred yards farther down Piuma, Jack banged a left onto Cold Canyon Road. Robert slowed down and caught sight of a sign up ahead: SADDLE PEAK LODGE 200 YARDS. Jack’s brake lights flashed at the lodge itself. Robert slammed to a stop, parked on Piuma’s shoulder, and started running back toward Cold Canyon.

  By the time he reached Saddle Peak Lodge, the valet had already parked Jack’s Mercedes. Two cars away from it: Gia’s red Healey.

  Not a lodge at all, this brown-clapboard roadhouse was cradled by the Santa Monica Mountains with a big-money canyon view to its west. He eased through the front door: animals with antlers on hewn-wood walls, exposed beams overhead, a working stone fireplace, and wooden vines woven into chairs.

  Then he saw Jack and Gia, escorted through the far dining area to an empty outside patio.

  I get it, he thought. Still early, not many customers yet.

  Rustic, romantic, out of the way. Easy enough to write copy for a place like this. He took a seat at the end of the bar and leaned back on his stool. When he did, he could see Jack and Gia seated outside, thirty yards away. The two of them sitting there, he could tell, like a bad first date.

  The maître d’ walked up and offered to seat him.

  He passed on her offer and ordered a beer from the bartender. Rugged, handsome, forty, he looked like an out-of-work actor to Robert, so after a couple of minutes shooting the breeze, Robert gave it a shot: “Excuse me, didn’t I see you on . . . what was it . . . I know I saw you in . . . help me out?”

  “CSI.” The bartender smiled.

  “Knew it. Miami, right?” Robert guessed.

  “Right on.”

  “Lotta industry people come out here?”

  “Some. Not enough. Too far from the studios except for Sony.”

  Robert could tell the bartender was past bullshitting himself: up for this part, up for that one. Once actors gave up acting, the ones he’d met were pretty decent guys.

  “Man sitting outside looks Hollywood,” Robert asked, meaning Jack. “Agent or what?”

  “Charles? I don’t know what he does.”

  Jack’s waiter came up to the bar-service area, set down his pad.

  “One O’Bannion Single Malt for the gentleman, Pellegrino for the lady.”

  The bartender cracked open a Pellegrino for Gia. Set a half-full bottle of whiskey on the bar. “Tell Charles that Gary said we’re out of his O’Bannion. Then tell him Gary thinks there’s a bottle in the storeroom, and Gary will run get it special, just for him.”

  “Will do, Gary,” the waiter said.

  “She The Famous?” the bartender asked the waiter.

  “No. She hasn’t performed since that day.”

  Both of them laughed. The waiter took off with Gia’s Pellegrino.

  “Do you know Charles?” Robert asked, meaning Jack.

  “Comes here quite a bit, but no. One of those guys likes a fuss made over him.”

  Robert nodded. Made sense to him. “The Famous? I gotta ask . . .”

  “I wasn’t here that day, but that’s her nickname. Short for The Famous Tattoo Girl.”

  Robert said, “Sorry I missed seeing that. Who is she?”

  The bartender said, “Well, I was never in CSI: Miami, so that depends.”

  Robert slid a hundred-dollar bill across the bar as Jack’s waiter came back. Gary poured whiskey into a highball glass, told the waiter, “Tell Charles his pal, Gary, cracked the seal on his O’Bannion, the very last bottle in stock.” He winked at Robert.

  “As you wish,” the waiter said.

  The bartender snapped that hundred at the waiter like they’d share it.

  “You have any idea who The Famous was?” the bartender asked.

  “Not really. Younger, though, a lot younger than Charles. Had on shades, ball cap, short skirt, but, dude, was she hot for him or what?” the waiter said.

  “Upstairs, right?” the bartender asked, meaning for the waiter to share with Robert, not him.

  “At first,” the waiter told Robert, “I thought she was goin’ down on him at the table. Then they took it upstairs, one of the private dining rooms. And get this: you could still hear ’em goin’ at it from down here.”

  “And you have no idea who she was?”

  “One-shot deal, far as I know. A pro, maybe? But after their show, she came down the stairs, took it right out the front door. Oh. And the way Charles always does it, he pays cash, or the girl does. No credit cards.”

  “So he’s always just Charles,” Robert said, and both guys nodded.

  The waiter headed away with Jack’s whiskey, and Robert followed him into the first dining room.

  “What about her tattoo?” he asked the waiter. “Where was it?”

  “Got a customer here, boss.”

  Robert stuffed a twenty in his pocket. That stopped him.

  “Upper calf, right below the knee,” the waiter said.

  “What’d it say, you remember?”

  “It was small. A word, maybe, more like a personal motto or a creed, not a big dragon or wolf. Hey, boss, I was trying not to look.”

  He turned to leave. Robert stopped him.

  “Right leg or left?” Robert asked.

  “Seriously, boss?”

  The waiter headed through the door, out to Jack’s table. Through a paned window, Robert watched them. Watched the waiter serve Jack his drink, take out his pad to write down their food order. There was no touching or kidding around between Jack and Gia, not that he could see. To him, Gia looked like she was sad.

  As the waiter headed back inside, Robert turned to leave. That was when he saw Jack slide a thick white envelope across the table to Gia. And in the next heartbeat, she reached out, and the envelope disappeared into her purse.

  The lobby of Gia’s Brentwood bank was busy. It was almost 6:00 p.m. Robert waited in an out-of-the-way chair, facing a desk with a shiny nameplate: CHRISTIAN DUMAR. A banker in a striped su
it tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Are you sure Christian said your meeting was today?” he asked. “It’s his day off.”

  “Yes, today. We were very clear about it.”

  “We close in ten minutes. Are you sure someone else can’t help you?”

  From the corner of his eye, he caught Gia walking in the door. Once she made it to the marble table, she filled out a deposit slip and pulled out that white envelope from the Saddle Peak. Counted the wrapped stacks of cash from inside Jack’s envelope on the table.

  “Tell you what, I’ll catch him tomorrow.” Robert stood and shook the banker’s hand. “My bad,” Robert said and slipped out the doors behind Gia.

  Ten minutes later, he fished her receipt from the trash barrel outside, where she’d tossed it. Then he went back to his Focus and unwadded it.

  $20,000.00, her receipt read. All cash.

  CHAPTER 17

  A cue ball smashed a triangle-shaped eight-ball rack, scattering balls all around the table. Alison was shooting, sank two stripes on her break, and kept her turn.

  “Think I’ll go with . . . mmm, let me think . . . stripes?” she asked him.

  “Your call,” Robert said, chalking his cue.

  She made her next shot.

  He’d already told her on the phone about Gia’s envelope of cash, and she suggested meeting here, at the Tattle Tale Room. Ever since, she hadn’t mentioned Gia’s envelope. That surprised him.

  She made another shot. He chalked his cue again. “Next time I pick the game, okay?”

  “Like what?”

  “Bowling?”

  “I’ll get my ball out of storage.” She made her next shot, too, looked up from the table. “So, you think Jack’s paying that woman to keep quiet about something?”

  “Sure you want to know more?”

  “A little more,” she said. “I don’t get it. He fired her, didn’t he?”

  “I’m not quite there yet, but I gotta believe Jack’s been a very bad boy.”