by JF Freedman
“There always is,” she nods, her intuition confirmed. “And what is this one?”
“We want to put our slant drills on your property.”
Dorothy closes her eyes. She knew it.
“That is a definite string, despite your disclaimer to the contrary, and a very large one,” she says. She turns to her daughter-in-law. “Do you know something about this?” she confronts Miranda.
Miranda looks at Hopkins, then at Frederick, finally at Dorothy.
“Yes.”
“For how long?” Dorothy asks her. Her lips are pressed tightly together, her hands are fists in her lap. Consorting with an oil company, the enemy, is bad enough; when it’s done behind her back, that’s absolutely unacceptable.
“About a month,” Miranda answers easily. “Mr. Hopkins confided in me when he first approached me regarding his company’s donation.”
“I see.” So Miranda had lied when she told the press that nothing of this nature had been discussed prior to the oil company coming forward with their “no strings attached” gift. She doesn’t know if she’s angrier about the deceit or about being excluded from participation.
“I run our business and the foundation,” Miranda reminds Dorothy. “Who else would Mr. Hopkins approach?”
She’s got Dorothy there, much as Dorothy detests it.
“When I said ‘no strings,’ I meant that,” Hopkins interjects, reading the tension between the two. “The donation is unconditional. It’s yours, no matter what happens.”
Dorothy turns to Miranda. “This is diametrically opposed to everything we’ve ever stood for,” she says.
“I know, Mother,” Miranda answers. She calls Dorothy “Mother” only when she’s being extremely deferential. “But if Rainier Oil is willing to fund our project, an incredible commitment, and if by taking their rigs out of the channel they’ll lessen the chance of an oil spill, which has been a huge concern for all of us for three decades, shouldn’t we at least hear what they have to say? That’s why I got us all together tonight.”
“A fair hearing, that’s all we ask,” Hopkins weighs in. He hesitates so slightly that only Miranda picks up on it.
“Technology in my industry is exploding exponentially,” he tells Dorothy. “What we can do now we couldn’t even have dreamt of five years ago, and today’s cutting-edge stuff will seem like museum pieces by the end of the decade. Fossil fuels are going to be a zero-based process as far as pollution is concerned. The means are available now—all that’s required is the will, and Rainier Oil has the will. Our chairman wants to revolutionize the industry, and when Mac Browne wants something done, it happens.”
Dorothy looks out towards the ocean. The oil rigs, their night lights twinkling like Christmas-tree ornaments, rise out of the water in the distance, like Poseidon’s army on the march. In just this one quick glance over a very narrow area her eye spies over a dozen of them. Slowly, she turns her attention back. “I’ve always prided myself on being a fair woman, willing to hear the other side’s argument, even when I am in total opposition to them philosophically,” she says to Hopkins.
“So although I’m sure I’ll wind up disagreeing with you, I am willing to listen.”
“Thank you,” Hopkins says to her. “That’s more than fair.”
Miranda turns away so that Dorothy won’t see the expression on her face.
There’s no control tower at the Santa Ynez airport. Anyone flying out of that area who wants to file a flight plan does it out of the Santa Barbara airport, on the other side of the pass.
Kate stands across the counter from a woman in the operations department as the woman looks at her identification. She can tell that the woman is curious to know about what train wreck did the damage to her face, but is too polite to ask.
“How long ago was this flight you’re interested in?” the woman asks instead. “Our records go back only so long.”
“Just a little while back.” She gives the woman the exact date.
“We should have that, if one was filed. A lot of times planes flying in and out of there don’t file flight plans.”
“It was nighttime, both when it landed and took off,” Kate says. “And it was a jet. A small one.”
“Well, it probably did, then. Jets usually want to fly over eighteen thousand feet, and if it was at night they would have been on IFA.” She pulls out a thick binder. “Do you have the N number? The registration number from the plane?”
Kate reads of the number from her notepad. She’d written it down from memory, the morning after she’d seen it.
The woman flips some pages until she gets to the one with the date Kate gave her. “Here it is. That airplane flew in from McCarran Field, Las Vegas, landed on a private strip in the Santa Ynez Valley, then flew back to McCarran.” She glances up. “Do you know who that plane belongs to?”
Kate nods. “The Sparks family. I’m doing some work for them. Records verification, that sort of thing.”
“They need a private detective to find this out? A phone call would do it.”
“When you’re in their position, you hire people like me to do things for you other people would do for themselves.”
“I wouldn’t know.” She takes another sideways glance at Kate. “Is that all you wanted?”
“That’s all.”
“It must be nice to be that rich,” the woman says, putting the book away. “Having others do everything for you.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Kate says. “I just work for them.”
The Sparkses fly to Las Vegas in their private jet. Kate drives. A couple hundred of the twenty thousand goes into a long-overdue tuneup of her car, particularly the air-conditioning. She isn’t about to motor across the desert in a car that won’t stay cool.
Don Lockridge is assistant head of security at the biggest and gaudiest hotel in town. He got the job after retiring from the Oakland PD, where he’d done his twenty-five, rising to assistant chief. He’s cueball-bald, but he looks more like Yogi Berra than Kojak. He greets her warmly, his brow wrinkled in question as he sees her face.
“Line of duty?” he asks.
“Actually, it was a car accident.”
“You mending okay?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Glad to hear that. So when was the last time we saw each other?”
“Your retirement party.”
“Six years. That long? Time isn’t standing still. Although you’d think it was to look at you, busted-up face or no.”
“Thank you, kind sir.”
They’re in his office, a small cubicle off the main security area. The walls are glass, he can look out and see everything in front of him. On her way up here she’d noticed the cameras, the computers, the elaborate security apparatus. All modern, state-of-the-art. The war rooms in the Pentagon can’t be much better equipped than this, she thinks to herself. Certainly no big-city police department is.
Don’s the one person working in Vegas that she both knows and feels okay to semi-confide in. He was first and last a stand-up guy, a strictly by-the-book no-bullshit cop. One of the reasons he got a cushy job like this, she figures—he can’t be bought. He’s probably making twice or three times his police salary, and he never has to put his life on the line.
She called yesterday and said she wanted to see him, that maybe he could help her out. He’d be happy to, he said over the phone, if he could. Explanations would come later.
“How’s things going in Oakland?” he asks, making small talk. “I haven’t been back in over four years.”
“I don’t live there anymore either, so I don’t know. Not much different, I assume. I left the force two years ago myself,” she explains.
“I didn’t know that. What about Eric?”
“He left, too.”
“Are you two still together?”
“No.”
She could go into the details, but that’s not the point. His not being aware of her full history is better, especially on
the job. And since he knew Eric, her splitting is not unexpected news.
“Where’re you living?” he asks.
“Santa Barbara.”
“Ah, that’s a great little city,” he enthuses. “That must be a great place to live.”
“Most of the time.” When you’re not getting beaten within an inch of your life. She fishes a card out, slides it across his desk.
“PI work, huh?” He turns her card over in his hand, drops it in his shirt pocket.
“It’s what I know.”
“Tell me about it. Old cops never die, they just …” He leans back in his chair, smiling at her. “How can I help you, Kate?”
“I’m looking for a woman and a man who work here. In one of the casinos, I would guess.”
“Know their names?” He begins reaching for a thick book.
“I don’t know either one of them.”
“Do you know what they look like?”
She nods. “I’ve seen them. I could make either one.”
He sits back. “Do you know what they do?”
“The woman’s a high-priced call girl for sure. Mid-thirties, I’m guessing. The guy’s the same thing for women. Probably has a day gig as a bartender, bouncer. Big man, well built. He’s younger, in his twenties.”
“What’d they do?”
“Maybe ripped off a client. For big money.”
“Someone who comes here?”
“Can we talk?”
He nods.
“Very private,” she cautions.
“I’m a good sphinx.”
She smiles. It’s a comfort to be with someone who talks your talk, and who you can trust.
“Here’s the deal, Don. I’m doing some work for a prominent Santa Barbara family named Sparks. Ever hear of them?”
The name visibly jolts him. He takes a moment to recover. “Of course. Frederick Sparks is a regular here.”
“At your hotel?” She digs in her purse for her pad and pen.
“No.” He shakes his head. “He stays up the street, does his gambling there.” He leans forward. “Does what you’re working on have anything to do with Frederick’s gambling habits?”
A bulb flickers in the back of her head. “No.”
“Good, because that’s off-limits.”
Her intuition clicks in strong. “However much he’s lost, he can afford it,” she says, tossing out a line.
Don takes the bait. “It’s not a secret, is it?”
“People in Santa Barbara don’t go around talking about it, but …” She shrugs as if to say, “I know all about it.”
He nods, his face a model of a man making a call. “What the hey,” he says, “you’re family. And you’re working for them anyway, right? You’re not bullshitting about that?”
“I’m in their employ. Verdad.” She puts her hand in the Girl Scout salute. “They just gave me a twenty-thousand-dollar retainer,” she confides in him.
He whistles. “You must be doing some kind of good work for them.”
“I’m earning it, believe me.”
“Course, for people like that, twenty K is not serious money. Freddy Sparks’ll drop that and more on a single hand of poker. What you or I think would be a fortune might be lunch money for someone else. A Michael Jordan, for example.”
“Exactly.”
“Anyway. What about this couple?”
“I want to talk to them. At least one. The woman, preferably. Quietly, off the books. I want to make her an offer she can’t refuse.”
The woman is closer to Frederick than the man. She doesn’t quite know why she thinks that, but she feels it in her gut.
“Okay. Let’s see what we can do.”
They drive down the Strip in his car, a new Caddy Seville.
“Nice wheels,” she tells him, feeling the soft leather under her ass. “The real goods.”
“Twenty years bouncing your kidneys in a city Ford, I figure I deserve it.”
Don’s counterpart is sympathetic to her problem, especially with Don standing there next to her, rabbiing her through the process. “I’m pretty sure I know who you’re talking about,” he tells her, pulling a thick mug-type book off his shelf. “Mr. Sparks usually spends his time with Brittany, and I’m certain she was his companion the night in question. He was playing cards in a private party. She’s a show dancer and she also works select private parties. The cream of the crop, so to speak.”
“I appreciate this.”
“You’re doing us a favor. We can’t have this kind of shit going on, pardon my French.” He flips pages through the book, page after page of pictures. “Although I’m surprised at this. Brittany’s never been in trouble before. I consider her good as gold.”
“It might have been her partner, or maybe neither one. But I want to talk to her.”
“Here it is.” He points to a photo. “Is this her?”
Kate stares at the face on the sheet. It’s a Polaroid, but there’s no doubt that it’s the woman she saw at the ranch.
“It’s her.”
“What about the guy?”
“Put a pin in that. If I need him we’ll look. Right now it’s the woman I’m interested in.”
“I’ll rustle her up for you. Wait here.” He leaves them in his office.
Don turns to her. “You’re set up now.”
“Thanks, Don. I owe you a big one.”
“Don’t worry about it. Stop by my store before you leave town. We’ll have dinner. I know a great little Italian place. You’ll think you’re back home.”
“That sounds great.”
She watches his thick cop back as he walks out the door. He’s a good man, a good friend. She wishes she hadn’t had to lie to him.
Don’s counterpart returns a few minutes later, Brittany in tow. It’s her, all right, Kate is sure of it.
The woman is dressed expensively and is heavily made up, particularly for daytime. She’s no kid. Only few years younger than I am, Kate thinks. Not a life she’d like to be living, especially for a woman pushing forty.
The hotel man cocks an eye at Kate. She nods. “This woman is a friend of the hotel’s,” he informs Brittany, indicating Kate. “Tell her whatever she wants to know.” He looks at Kate. “I’ll leave you alone, but I won’t be far.”
“Thank you.”
He closes the door behind him, locking them in from the outside—the click of his key slamming in the lock rings loudly in the silence.
“Who are you?” Brittany asks. She’s putting up a strong front, like this is a major crimp in her schedule, which it is, but that’s not the reason she’s copping an attitude. She’s scared. She doesn’t know why she’s here, but whatever the reason, it isn’t good. She knows what happens to people who fuck up.
“That’s unimportant,” Kate answers brusquely, her cop training kicking in. “I have some questions to ask you, so please sit down.”
“What do you want?” Brittany asks, balking at the command. She stands near the door, her back almost touching the wall.
“Sit down, please.”
“Tell me what I’m here for.”
“Sit down and I will.”
The woman hesitates, trying to act tough, but she can’t pull it off. She slides into one of the chairs in front of the security man’s desk. Kate sits in the other chair, close to her. She doesn’t want a desk between them—she wants to be close enough to this woman to hear her heartbeat.
It’s a cruel thing, what she’s about to do. But getting beaten is crueler. It’s her job, her own personal stuff. The woman will be scared, but that’s all. She won’t lose her job. That’s not the point.
“You accompanied Mr. Sparks to his ranch a short time ago,” Kate begins. “You and a male companion.”
Brittany stares at her. “How do you know that?”
“It’s my business.”
“Shit.” The woman curses under her breath. Was she being watched? What the fuck was going on up there, besides the usual kinky shit Fr
eddy has her do?
“Some valuable items subsequently turned up missing. From the ranch where you spent the night. Part of the night.”
“Say what?”
“The ranch was robbed.”
“Aw, come on! Are you accusing me of robbing that place?”
“You were there. You and your friend. As far as we can tell you were the only two who were, besides Mr. Sparks.”
The woman turns pale underneath her makeup. “I did not take anything from that house. Not even a matchbook. I swear to God.”
“For your sake I hope that’s true, because whoever did is going to go to jail. And I’m not talking thirty days in the county lockup, either.”
“I did not rob that house,” Brittany insists.
Kate looks down to make a few notations in her pad—nothing really, but it looks scary. Then she looks up, engaging Brittany in her stare, until the woman turns away.
“I’m going to ask you some questions,” she says. “If you’re straight with me, this won’t go any further. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Perfectly.”
“All right.” She takes a beat. “Your friend.” Kate clicks her fingers like his name is on the tip of her tongue. “What was his name again?” She starts flipping through her notebook as if it’s written down on the page.
“Alex.”
“Right. Alex …” Again, the fake looking-up.
“Lee.”
“Alex Lee. Right, that’s the one. Tall, dark hair cut short, wearing jeans and a white pocket T-shirt.”
“Oh, Jesus. Where were you watching us from?” A sudden panic comes in her voice. “You didn’t see the pictures, did you? Freddy said no one ever saw those pictures.”
“Well, I know about them,” Kate answers vaguely.
“Oh man. If those pictures get out I’m ruined in this town. That’s like a Tijuana dog-and-pony show, that stuff.”
“They are pretty graphic,” Kate says, leading her on.
“Who’s seen them? Where have they been?” She slumps in her chair, her tight dress climbing to the tops of her thighs. She’s wearing hose, Kate notices, real stockings. Probably silk.