by Meg Gardiner
‘‘Diana Ross.’’
Her nostrils dilated. Her jaw didn’t move. ‘‘Who is this woman?’’
She looked to her companion for support, but his face was bright with amusement.
‘‘She’s our Baby Love.’’ Smiling at me. ‘‘And I’m Steve McQueen.’’ He gestured to her. ‘‘This is Maria Callas.’’
‘‘Charmed,’’ I said. ‘‘Will Maria be singing tonight, or just hissing at the guests?’’
His laugh was full of appetite. ‘‘Dueling divas. I love it.’’
And he did. He wanted some of what I was dishing out to her. He could have worn a sign saying, SPANK ME.
But Mari Diamond’s fingers were white on her wineglass. ‘‘If you’re from Diamond Mindworks, you’re out of a job.’’
She turned and swished away. Raising her hand, she snapped her fingers, signaling somebody. I saw Clipboard standing at the edge of the crowd, her tiny glasses shining as she scanned the room. Mari Diamond was beckoning to her.
Damn. I dove into the crowd. I was almost out of time.
And I saw, in the center of the gallery, a masked character in a black cape and gaucho hat. He was grinning broadly, looking carefree, indifferent about the people he’d bilked, the elderly investors and hourly-wage workers whose life savings he had squandered. I took the summons from my purse.
An older man stepped up to shake his hand. His hair looked like an upturned white scrub brush. If his suit was a costume, he had come as an undertaker.
I knew him. Everybody in the room knew him. He was the big man here, and not just because he was a head taller than most people. He was George Rudenski, the CEO of Mako Technologies, main sponsor of tonight’s benefit. But I didn’t have time for protocol; I had to butt in on him. Mari Diamond was talking to Clipboard, pointing in my direction. I had to do this right now.
Steve McQueen grabbed my arm. ‘‘What’s your rush? Those guys are old farts. Come talk to me.’’
‘‘Another time.’’ I swung out of his grip.
I approached Zorro. ‘‘Cal? Is that you under that mask?’’
Pressing a hand to his chest, he bowed and said, ‘‘Señorita, Zorro never reveals his identity.’’
George Rudenski looked at me. I had interviewed him for an article on cybersecurity that I wrote for California Lawyer magazine, and he was trying to place me. His eyes were penetrating.
‘‘Forgive me. Are you with Mako?’’ he said.
‘‘No, I’m with the Supremes.’’
For all I cared, he could out me as a freelance legal journalist, or itinerant lawyer, or for planning to wear white at my wedding. But he knew my connection to Jesse, and if he mentioned it the game would be up.
He gave me a concentrated stare. ‘‘Evan.’’
I was out of time. I raised the summons toward the man in the mask.
‘‘Are you Cal Diamond?’’
That’s when I heard, near the entrance, a whipcrack. I looked up. Strutting through the door was another Zorro.
Laughter bubbled through the room. The first Zorro set hands on hips, consternated at the sight of his double. I felt sweat breaking out on my forehead.
A woman’s voice called out, ‘‘There she is.’’
Clipboard was butting through the crowd, with a security guard right behind her. She shook her finger at me.
‘‘You. You’re in big trouble.’’
Looking back, I see how many of the pieces were present, even then. But they were scattered, camouflaged, like leaves swirling across the ground on the wind, and at the time I didn’t know what I was seeing. It was the last moment before events started assembling themselves into the nightmare.
Near the entrance, a man let out a shout. The security guard raised a finger to his earpiece, listened, and started running toward the door. Clipboard watched him go, confused. Or maybe wondering if the Lone Ranger really had shown up. She shot me a suspicious look.
A second guard ran through the crowd. My cellular phone rang, and stopped, and that sent a tickle up my neck. I turned to leave.
George Rudenski put his hand on my arm. ‘‘Why are you looking for Cal?’’
‘‘It doesn’t matter.’’
‘‘Are you here to ambush him?’’ His calm eyes now had heat in them. ‘‘Tonight is about raising money for disadvantaged kids, not about getting yourself a scoop.’’
He had it wrong, but just about right. Turning from him, I ducked toward the door before Clipboard could stop me. I felt small.
Outside, I found tumult. Two cars had tangled in front of the museum. A white minivan was up on the sidewalk, and a blue Audi had sideswiped a mailbox.
The guards were running toward it. It was Jesse’s car.
I rushed down the stairs, fighting fear. The minivan driver was walking toward the Audi, waving his arms.
‘‘You call that driving?’’ he shouted. ‘‘You pulled out right in front of me.’’
A security guard reached the Audi and yanked open the driver’s door.
‘‘Get out of the car.’’
Leaning in, he grabbed Jesse’s arm. I wanted to slap him.
Jesse wrenched loose. He was talking on his cell phone, had the earpiece in, hands-free.
‘‘—south on State Street,’’ he said. ‘‘Right now, as we speak. Five-eleven, brown hair, blue dress shirt and khakis.’’
The guard reached for him again.
‘‘Don’t touch me.’’ He elbowed the guard and locked an arm over the steering wheel so the man couldn’t pull him out. Into the phone he said, ‘‘Yes, on foot.’’
I breathed. He was okay, I saw. And he was talking to the police, but not about this fender-bender.
I said, ‘‘What’s going on?’’
The minivan driver turned on me. ‘‘You know this guy? Where’d he learn to drive, clown college?’’
Jesse looked up. His eyes were fiery.
He said, ‘‘Brand’s here.’’
His voice was like a falling blade. The guards, the minivan driver, the shouts and jostling elbows faded to static. My palms tingled.
‘‘Where?’’ I said.
He pointed toward the corner. ‘‘Headed down State Street. Hurry.’’
He didn’t need to say anything else. I ran.
I sprinted down State Street. People were thick on the sidewalk, their faces cheery in the sunset, backed by palm trees and music tumbling from clubs and restaurants. I weaved and dodged, holding on to my wig, looking frantically around.
Five-foot-eleven, brown hair, blue dress shirt and khakis. That described dozens of men on the street. It didn’t begin to cover Brand.
Franklin Brand was the man who drove his two-ton, 325-horsepower car into Jesse and Isaac Sandoval. He was the coward who left them ruined on the ground. He was the fugitive who fled Santa Barbara the night of the crash, the bastard who’d spent three years enjoying himself on a foreign shore while Isaac lay cold in the dirt and Jesse fought to reconstruct his life. He was wanted on a felony warrant for vehicular manslaughter, and he was here now, somewhere among the throng.
A woman stepped into my path. I banged into her, called out, ‘‘Sorry,’’ and kept going.
Franklin Brand was the executive who, on an evening like this one, took his company car for a joyride up Mission Canyon. Rounding a curve, he came up behind Isaac and Jesse. They were powering up the hill on their bikes, training for a triathlon. Brand didn’t see them until it was too late. The skid marks started only after the point of impact, when he braked to keep from plunging over the edge himself.
At the corner a red light stopped me. Cars streamed past. I looked up and down the cross street. Traffic eased and I ran across the intersection, knocking into people, muttering, ‘‘Excuse me.’’
The day after the crash, an anonymous caller phoned the police and identified Franklin Brand as the driver. The police asked the caller how she knew it was Brand at the wheel. Her answer, recorded verbatim in the police repor
t, was succinct. ‘‘Because I was with him. I had his cock in my mouth at the time.’’
She told the cops where to find Brand’s car, abandoned and burned in the hills behind the city. But Brand had a passport and he had money offshore, plenty of it. Millions. By the time a judge issued an arrest warrant, he was in Mexico City. The trail died there.
What in hell he was doing here, tonight, in downtown Santa Barbara, I didn’t know. But I could not let him get away.
Down the street, I saw a blue shirt swinging through the crowd. My breath caught. His hair was brown and he had on khakis, was the right height. I closed on him.
I remembered seeing Brand’s photo in the paper after the accident: pasty skin and budding jowls, a bored look. Ahead, the blue shirt turned, and I caught a glimpse of the man’s face, stained red by a neon sign. I slowed, squinting at him.
A feeling like icy water dripped through me. The eyes, the cast of the mouth. It was him.
I hesitated. Should I perform a citizen’s arrest? Yell, Stop, in the name of love? He picked up his pace.
Call the police, that’s what you do. I dug in my purse for my cell phone.
Two college students stumbled out of a Mexican restaurant, singing drunkenly. They lumbered into me and knocked the phone from my hand.
‘‘Oh, man,’’ said one, staggering. ‘‘Dude, look what you did.’’
I bent down, grabbing the phone before they accidentally kicked it. Standing back up, I looked around. Where was Brand?
Ten feet ahead—there, blue shirt standing at the curb. He raised his arm and, with that universal urban gesture, hailed a taxi. A Yellow Cab swung to a stop. I couldn’t believe it. In Santa Barbara, taxis come along as often as Santa’s sleigh.
He was grasping the door handle when I dove on him.
I hit him from behind, hard enough to knock his feet off the curb. We bounced off the taxi and tumbled to the sidewalk. My wig fell over my eyes. I heard his breath blow out, felt my knee hit the concrete, heard the sequins on my dress clicking as I scrambled on top of him.
He squirmed underneath me.
I yelled, ‘‘Call the cops.’’
I pushed the wig out of my eyes. Beneath me the man stared back.
His hands were up, gesturing surrender. ‘‘Take it— take the damn cab. I’ll get another one.’’
He was at least fifty-five, with a pencil mustache and aristocratic Latin looks. His wig was just as crooked as mine. It wasn’t Brand, not by a mile.
Mortified, I climbed off him, apologizing, helping him up. He fumbled with his toupee. I brushed dust from his shirt.
‘‘I’m sorry,’’ I said for the fifteenth time.
He waved me off. ‘‘Go away.’’
Teeth clenched, I started down the street again. My knee was bleeding. I limped along, looking at the crowd, trying to ignore their stares.
After ten minutes, I stopped. I had lost him.
2
When I jogged back to the art museum two cops were talking to Jesse, and they didn’t look happy. He was out of his car, sitting in the wheelchair. The sky had softened to velvet blue. The security guards watched from the museum steps, and the minivan driver had backed his vehicle off the sidewalk. The usual forces had been at work. The wheelchair cleared space the way a magnet repels polarized metal. It also worked as a mute button, shutting people right up. But the resulting hush was never empty; pity and discomfort lingered in the twilight.
And Jesse, typically, had seized the silence. Apparently he had defused the other driver and convinced the guards to back off. The police officers stood with arms crossed, listening to him. Disability as stun gun: knock people off guard, gain the upper hand. He was a born litigator.
I heard him say, ‘‘Yeah, he pulled out without signaling. ’’ The van swerved, and he swerved, and the mailbox got the worst of it. His fault, but Brand took off and he had to follow him.
‘‘And every second, he’s getting farther away. If you’ll give me the ticket, you can go find him.’’
His face was luminous with anger. Then he caught sight of me, and a dismaying expression ignited in his eyes: hope. I jogged up, shaking my head. His shoulders dropped.
The shorter cop was a brunette built like a stove. She said, ‘‘Ma’am, this gentleman claims he saw an individual who’s being sought by the police.’’
‘‘Franklin Brand,’’ I said. ‘‘He’s a fugitive wanted on a manslaughter warrant.’’
‘‘So we hear. You saw this individual?’’
‘‘Heading down State toward Carrillo.’’
Her partner half turned and spoke into his portable radio, calling in the information. The radio squawked.
Jesse pointed at my bloody knee. ‘‘What happened?’’
‘‘Never mind.’’
The cop eyed my costume. ‘‘Is the rest of the Mod Squad still chasing the suspect?’’
‘‘Yeah. Just follow the groovy theme music; you can’t miss them.’’
She could have battered doors open with that face. Time for me to dial down the attitude.
Jesse said to her, ‘‘Chasing the suspect should be what you’re doing.’’
He gripped the push-rims of the wheelchair. His hands, in his half-fingered gloves, looked bloodless.
The cop ripped a ticket out of her citation book and gave it to him. ‘‘The Postal Service will contact you about the mailbox. Next time, watch for oncoming traffic.’’
‘‘We done?’’
Without waiting for a response, he spun and headed for his car.
He’d barely started the engine before he got on the phone again, calling Chris Ramseur, the police detective who handled the hit-and-run investigation.
‘‘Tell him to call me. It’s urgent,’’ he said. Hanging up, he looked my way. ‘‘Did you serve Diamond?’’
‘‘No. There were two Zorros.’’
‘‘Damn.’’ He pulled out. ‘‘ ‘You saw this individual?’ They think I’m seeing ghosts.’’
‘‘Chris won’t.’’
He swung onto State, a brazen illegal turn. ‘‘Brand walked across the street right in front of my car. He stared straight at me.’’
The image gave me a chill. ‘‘Did he recognize you?’’
"Didn’t give me a second glance. No, he was going to the museum."
We looked at each other.
‘‘Mako,’’ I said.
‘‘The ghost that won’t stay dead, no matter how deep I bury it.’’
Before Franklin Brand was a fugitive, he was a vice president at Mako Technologies. He was a star player at the company, which designed cybersecurity systems for corporations and the government. When he was charged with the hit-and-run, Mako panicked. It tried to divorce itself from the crash. Executives expressed shock at the charges. They disputed Brand’s guilt and convinced others to dispute it, persuading their insurance company to deny claims under Brand’s policy.
That left Jesse up the creek. He was critically injured and flat broke, a law student facing a six-figure medical bill that Mako’s insurer refused to pay. The future looked brutal.
‘‘I saw a life selling pencils,’’ he once told me. ‘‘Or worse, sitting on a corner holding a cardboard sign: ‘Hungry, toss food.’ I had nothing to lose. I loaded and fired with everything I had.’’
He threatened to sue the insurer for bad-faith denial of liability. Then he called George Rudenski at Mako. He talked to him about Isaac’s death, and his own spinal cord injury, and about Mako giving Brand a $65,000 car to play with. He explained that when he sued the insurance company, Mako would be a codefendant. Then he mailed Rudenski photos of the accident scene. Color photos.
Forty-eight hours later, the insurance company agreed to square things with Jesse and with Isaac’s brother. Rudenski had put it right.
‘‘Mixed emotions’’ barely described Jesse’s feelings toward Mako Technologies.
He said, ‘‘Brand was following somebody to the museum. He’s
trying to get in touch.’’
‘‘Why would he risk coming back here?’’
‘‘Think about it.’’
I thought. Stupidity. Love. ‘‘Money.’’
‘‘That’s my guess.’’
‘‘You think he has unfinished business with Mako?’’
‘‘Yeah. That means so do I.’’
He drove slowly, looking at people on the sidewalk. Light washed across his face and shoulders, gold and red pouring over his skin, flashing in his eyes.
‘‘He stared me in the face, Ev. Straight at me, and he didn’t react. He didn’t know who the hell I was.’’
He claimed he’d put it all behind him. No good looking back, he’d said. Life’s a crapshoot. Eyes front, ’cause the future’s the only place you can go.
Acceptance, they call this.
He was a remarkable person, accomplished and savvy, a first-class smart-ass who made me laugh and kept me honest. He took everything the world threw at him and hit it back, hard and clean, straight down the line. The year before, he had saved my life. He was handsome, and brave, and I loved him. I was going to marry him in nine weeks.
And right then, hearing the pain in his voice, I knew. It wasn’t true. He accepted nothing as long as Brand remained free. Everything had just changed—for him, and for me.
I said, ‘‘Turn around.’’
‘‘Why?’’
‘‘Go back to the museum. It’s time to start finishing some business.’’
He let me out and I climbed the museum steps, knowing that Clipboard would never let me back in. She stood guarding the door, clicking her ballpoint pen as though tapping out Morse code: Supremes invading. Send air support.
‘‘Simmer down. I’m just looking,’’ I said.
I stared past her shoulder into the foyer. I didn’t see George Rudenski. But I did see Steve McQueen finishing a plate of canapés. I rapped on the door and waved at him. He came outside, licking his fingers.
‘‘Back for round two with Mari Diamond? This will be rich,’’ he said.
‘‘I need your help. Could you tell George Rudenski that Evan Delaney wants to speak to him?’’
‘‘Oh?’’ He jammed his hands into his jeans pockets and stepped too close. ‘‘And he’ll break away from this shindig on your say-so?’’