Mission Canyon

by Meg Gardiner

  ‘‘No.’’ I ran a hand through my hair. ‘‘Yes.’’

  ‘‘Like what?’’

  ‘‘Sex and drugs and rock ’n’ roll, baby. You’re a red-blooded Californian. You tell me.’’

  He gave me the Wry Look, and took my hand. ‘‘I’ve never been a Puritan, but I don’t do stuff that’s illegal, immoral, or fattening.’’ He tugged on my hand. ‘‘I never took steroids, didn’t cheat on the bar exam. That business with the circus pony, the tabloids exaggerated the whole thing.’’

  I rolled my eyes, relaxing.

  ‘‘They’re trying to freak me out. What I need to do is figure out how to trace the message path, so the next time the cops can get on them.’’

  ‘‘Next time?’’

  ‘‘When they tell me they want me to shut up or back off. Just watch.’’ He grabbed his car keys. ‘‘Let’s go. The arraignment’s in half an hour.’’

  The county courthouse was a white fortress designed along the lines of an Andalusian castle. Adam was waiting outside. He wore Dockers and sandals, the academic-casual look not hiding the lines of tension in his face. Not hiding the hangover, either. He had on sunglasses and was trying not to move his head.

  He said, ‘‘I don’t know how I’m going to look at his face.’’

  ‘‘Just stick with me,’’ Jesse said.

  Upstairs in the courtroom we took a seat on the hard benches. Jesse sat in the aisle, leaned on his elbows, and stared at his feet. A minute later Chris Ramseur joined us, dressed in his usual jacket, checked shirt, and knit tie. Seeing him warmed me. Detectives rarely attended arraignments, but Chris was invested in the case. More than that, he cared.

  Soon the courtroom door clattered open, and sheriff’s deputies herded the shackled prisoners up the aisle, a conga line of the dead-eyed and defiant. Their blue coveralls stank of sweat and strong detergent.

  And finally we saw him, toward the end of the line. Adam’s hand gripped the bench behind my back. Jesse sat up straight. Brand walked past us, his gaze jumping around like a flea. He looked angry. He looked tired and dirty. But above all else, Franklin Brand looked rich.

  He was tanned. He was smooth. He actually looked younger than in photos. He could have posed for the cover of a Yachts R Us catalog.

  Jesse said, ‘‘He’s had plastic surgery.’’

  When the judge called his case he was unchained and walked through the gate to stand at the defense table. His attorney was a man named O’Leary who stroked his skull repeatedly, as if hoping to find hair there. The charges were read out.

  Vehicular manslaughter. Reckless driving causing great bodily harm. Hit-and-run. Flight to avoid prosecution.

  At the recitation of each charge, the judge said, ‘‘How do you plead?’’

  And Brand said, ‘‘Not guilty.’’

  I glanced at Jesse. He was barely breathing.

  The prosecutor requested $500,000 bail. Even I, no criminal attorney, knew that was high, but Adam hunched toward me, his face a fist.

  ‘‘Is that all?’’

  O’Leary asked for $50,000, the guideline amount for vehicular manslaughter. The prosecutor piped in again, talking about the multiple counts and Brand’s risk of flight, and the judge raised his hand.

  ‘‘I’ve heard enough. Bail is set at two hundred fifty thousand dollars.’’

  That was it. The talk went on, but we were through. Jesse spun to leave and I stood up to follow him.

  Adam said, ‘‘They’re letting him go.’’

  He was on his feet, gripping the bench in front of him. The judge looked up.

  ‘‘Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars won’t keep him in town. This is wrong.’’

  The judge banged his gavel. ‘‘Order in the court.’’

  ‘‘Are you insane? Two hundred fifty K is nothing. The man is a millionaire.’’

  The judge clacked the gavel. The bailiff pushed through the gate toward us, his face like wood. Chris urged Adam toward the aisle, but he held on to the bench. Brand kept his eyes front. He was picking his fingernails.

  Jesse said, ‘‘Adam, come on. It’s all right.’’

  Adam turned to him, mouth wide. After a long second he let go of the bench and hurtled from the room.

  Jesse caught him in the corridor outside. Adam was pacing in circles, holding his head. I heard him say, ‘‘Isaac—’’

  Chris said, ‘‘Evan.’’ He was writing on a business card. ‘‘This is the name of someone at Victims’ Assistance. Encourage Adam to call her.’’

  "Right."

  ‘‘This is only the start of a long, hard process. He needs to get a grip.’’ He looked at Jesse. ‘‘How about him? He’s going to have to testify.’’

  ‘‘Don’t worry about Jesse,’’ I said, and my mind tripped over the word. Testify.

  Adam was gesturing, arms wide. His voice bounced off the walls. Then the reporters came at them, calling out questions.

  ‘‘Mr. Sandoval, what do you think of Brand’s arrest?’’

  ‘‘How does it feel to see your brother’s alleged killer face-to-face?’’

  Adam froze. Jesse swiveled, putting himself between them.

  ‘‘Is justice finally being served?’’

  ‘‘Any comment on today’s proceedings?’’

  Jesse said, ‘‘You bet I’ll comment. Just a minute.’’

  He looked at me, and I read his eyes: Get Adam out of here. I grabbed Adam’s elbow and hustled him down the stairs. At the bottom he shrugged me off and strode outside as though desperate for oxygen.

  He said, ‘‘They’re letting him go. They’re letting the bastard go.’’

  His hands were shaking, and I didn’t think from the hangover.

  ‘‘How can Jesse stay so calm? Comment? I don’t want to comment; I want to stand Brand up against a wall and drive into him with a cement truck.’’

  He bent and put his hands on his knees. Immediately he straightened again, hurried toward a trash can, leaned over it, and threw up.

  After a moment he wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. ‘‘Sorry.’’

  I put my hand on his back. He was sweating.

  He said, ‘‘Can’t we protest the bail order? If Brand gets out, he’ll disappear.’’

  The anguish in his voice helped me make up my mind. ‘‘We can’t keep him in jail. But we can follow him to make sure he doesn’t try to skip town again.’’

  He looked at me quizzically before it clicked. ‘‘Yes.’’ Almost instantly he looked lighter. ‘‘Of course. But around the clock? We have to work, and . . .’’ He checked his watch. ‘‘Oh, I have to get to campus; I have a seminar.’’

  ‘‘Go. I’ll take the first watch.’’

  He took both my hands in his. ‘‘Thank you.’’ His eyes were red, his face haggard. ‘‘Thank you.’’

  He was halfway down the block when Jesse and Chris came outside. I told them he had gone to the university. Chris looked pensive.

  Jesse put on his wraparound sunglasses. ‘‘I told Chris about Isaac’s hassle with Mako over the missing paperwork. And about the blackmail threat on my computer.’’

  I said, ‘‘The threat. What if they want to dissuade you from testifying against Brand?’’

  They both looked at me. Jesse swore. Chris nodded at police headquarters, across the street from the courthouse. ‘‘Come on back to the station with me.’’

  ‘‘Give us a minute,’’ I said.

  ‘‘Sure.’’ He sauntered out of earshot, head down, looking like an absentminded professor lost in thought.

  Jesse said, ‘‘You’re going to tail Brand, aren’t you?’’

  ‘‘Until I’m convinced he isn’t hitting the road.’’

  ‘‘Great. I’ll join you as soon as I can.’’ He looked toward the courthouse. ‘‘It will be hours before he posts bond. In the meantime, they’ll probably take him back to the county jail.’’

  ‘‘So I’ll get a cup of coffee, and watch to see if the deputies
put him back on the bus with the chain gang.’’

  He nodded at Chris, idling up the street. ‘‘Just remember, his desk overlooks the courthouse. Stay out of his line of sight.’’

  ‘‘I thought he was on our side.’’

  "Evan, the only people on our side are us. Count on it."

  7

  The coffee was a mistake.

  I spent the afternoon parked across from the county jail in Goleta, sitting in the backseat of my Explorer, playing office. I caught up on phone calls, dug business receipts from my glove compartment, and ate a bag of peanut M&M’s for lunch. I outlined the seminar I planned to give at the writers’ conference: conflict. Ha, easy. Follow me, class. Observe, and take notes. And I worked on Chromium Rain, the chapter where the heroine escapes from the ruins of Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado. I kept an eye on the jail and the county sheriff’s headquarters next door to it. I didn’t want a curious deputy tapping on my window to ask why I was writing about blowing up NORAD.

  And the coffee had run through me. I needed a bathroom. I looked at the jail, hoping that if Brand came out, it would be soon.

  Did he plan to skip? I didn’t know. Despite Adam’s alarm, the idea of forfeiting $250,000 might deter a millionaire from running. Not to mention the thought of getting a bounty hunter after him. Moreover, I still believed Brand was in Santa Barbara on unfinished business.

  By three o’clock I was squirming. I needed relief, but Adam hadn’t phoned. When my cell phone finally rang, I grabbed it and said, ‘‘Hello?’’

  I think that’s what I said, but it may have come out as Grrr, because my brother said, ‘‘Well, aren’t you a bundle of sunshine.’’

  "Brian." I fidgeted on the seat. ‘‘How’s D.C.?"

  ‘‘Humid. So sticky that to stand up I have to scrape my butt off the desk chair with a spatula.’’

  He was at the Pentagon. It was a customary stop on a fighter pilot’s journey up the ranks in naval aviation, but he chafed at the desk job. The Pentagon could no longer be considered dull, safe duty, but it wasn’t an F/ A-18.

  ‘‘Listen, Ev, I’m calling to give you a heads-up. Company’s coming.’’

  ‘‘Really? Great, Bri, I can’t wait to see you and Luke—’’

  ‘‘Afraid it isn’t us. It’s Cousin Taylor.’’

  My spirits, momentarily elevated, dropped. ‘‘You’re joking.’’

  ‘‘Sorry, sis. The Hard Talk Café is bringing her mouth to your town.’’

  Across the street, a black Porsche Carrera pulled up at the jail. The driver got out, and I sat up straight. It was Kenny Rudenski.

  Brian said, ‘‘I just talked to Mom. Taylor’s husband is being transferred. The oil company’s sending him to a rig in the Santa Barbara Channel.’’

  Kenny smoothed his hair and went inside the jail. I scrambled over the gearshift into the front seat, feeling a ping from my bladder. Dropped into the driver’s seat, stuck the key in the ignition, and stopped.

  ‘‘Wait. Taylor is moving here?’’

  ‘‘There you go again, making that growling sound,’’ Brian said.

  Kenny came out of the jail with Franklin Brand. I started my car. Even at this distance I could see that Brand didn’t seem cheerful. His face looked stiffer than a boxing glove. Wordlessly he and Kenny climbed into the Porsche.

  ‘‘I’ll call you back, Brian.’’

  The Porsche pulled out. I let it go, waiting for a silver Mercedes SUV to pass before I fell in behind it, letting it screen me from Kenny’s view.

  The Porsche got on the freeway and headed west into Goleta. When he pulled off so did I, keeping the Mercedes between us. The light was turning red but Kenny didn’t stop for it. The Porsche gunned onto Patterson. I braked, blocked by cars ahead in both lanes, peering past traffic to see which way Kenny was going. The Mercedes SUV was stopped next to me in the right lane, and I saw the driver and passenger doing the same thing I was.

  Looking at the Porsche.

  The passenger was a wiry young woman with whippet’s limbs and cropped black hair. She was craning her neck. The driver was a rotund man whose glasses nestled in skin the color of pancake batter. His double chin hung like a gourd below his beardlet. The woman pointed at Kenny’s car. The driver spun the wheel and maneuvered the Mercedes onto the shoulder, around the cars in front of him, and made the turn.

  They were following him, too. For a moment I felt a bizarre competitive urge, and I started to spin the wheel and follow. But cautious brain cells awoke and kept my foot on the brake. Wait. Watch.

  The light changed and I turned onto Patterson. Ahead, the Porsche bounded around another corner and accelerated out of sight, the road bending beyond an avocado orchard. The Mercedes followed.

  So did I, speeding past the orchard, a fire station, new houses going up on what had been farmland. I hit another intersection and played the odds, going straight, into a commercial strip of shops, motels, and restaurants. I saw neither Kenny nor the Mercedes. Anxiety balled in my belly. I couldn’t lose Brand again.

  I stomped on the brake. There was the Porsche, under the portico at the Holiday Inn. The marquee out front announced, LOBSTER BUFFET $9.99, and WELCOME, GARCIA FAMILY REUNION. I turned in, parked, and watched the Porsche in the rearview mirror.

  Brand got out, slammed the car door, and walked into the lobby of the motel. The Porsche drove off, engine revving.

  I waited.

  I didn’t see the Mercedes following the Porsche. I didn’t see it in the parking lot. I didn’t see the choppy-haired woman or the fat man strolling into the lobby.

  I win.

  Pulling on a baseball cap and sunglasses, I got out and headed for the lobby.

  I pushed through the doors into the Holiday Inn. Brand was standing at the front desk talking to a clerk, his back to me. I walked past him.

  He said, ‘‘Messages?’’

  ‘‘Your room number?’’

  ‘‘One twenty-seven.’’

  Sometimes you get lucky. He was checked in. He was expecting messages. I walked over to a rack loaded with tourist brochures, picked one, and slipped a pen from my back pocket. I wrote 127 on the brochure.

  I stood there for a few seconds longer. If I didn’t get to a bathroom, I would have a blowout. I glanced over my shoulder. Brand was standing at the desk reading message slips. The bathrooms were along a hallway to my left. I thought about it.

  What if this was an elaborate ruse on Brand’s part? He could be planning a getaway. Perhaps Kenny Rudenski had only pretended to drive off. Perhaps he was circling the block, preparing to pick Brand up by the laundry bins.

  And perhaps I should have read the skulking manual before following him. Page one: Pee, then tail.

  I couldn’t wait any longer. Turning my face away from Brand, I hurried for the restroom. I pushed through the door and saw that rare ladies’ room jewel, the vacant stall. O frabjous day. I locked the stall door, jammed my bag on the coathook. My eyes were watering but I was about to burst into song, maybe rip loose with an aria from Tosca in joy.

  Outside the stall came footsteps, and feet appeared, wearing Doc Martens. A woman’s hand reached over the top of the stall door, fumbled around, and grabbed my bag off the coathook.

  I yelled, "Hey—"

  But she was gone.

  It was a classic bit of thievery. I hurried as best I could, zipped up, ran from the stall and out into the hallway.

  Right into Brand.

  I swallowed a gasp, feeling my pores open. He was solid, a big man marbled with weight beneath the cashmere sport coat. He smelled jail-sour and had shaved badly. Graying stubble patched his jowls.

  His head snapped around. ‘‘Watch it.’’

  His eyes were a strange calico green-and-brown, almost kaleidoscopic, and rank with anger. Brushing me aside, he headed out toward the pool.

  My vision was thumping. Dumb seconds ticked off until I ran outside too, looking for the woman in Doc Martens. The motel was built around an int
erior courtyard, with a lawn and tall palm trees and a turquoise swimming pool. Kids were playing, sunlight flickering on the water. Brand walked toward the far side of the courtyard. He had a key card in his hand.

  The woman wasn’t there.

  Screw it. I ran back inside to the lobby and out the main door.

  My bag was sitting in a planter, half-open. My wallet was nearby. I checked: All cash, my driver’s license, Social Security card, and credit cards were gone. So was my cell phone.

  Out on the street, a silver Mercedes SUV roared away from the motel.

  I went back into the lobby and told the desk clerk to call the police.

  The manager came to the front desk, apoplectic with embarrassment.

  She said, ‘‘We’re terribly sorry about this. Your stay will be complimentary, ma’am.’’

  It was the thinnest of silver linings. ‘‘I was just about to register. The name’s Delaney,’’ I said. ‘‘Do you have anything near room one twenty-seven?’’

  8

  The East Beach Writers’ Conference was the official name, but the event should have been called the Fiction Smackdown. It was two days of controlled chaos, organized by a gang of writers who suppressed their neuroses and jealousy just long enough to book the hotel conference center. At noon the next day I arrived to give my seminar. The hotel looked out across Cabrillo Boulevard at beach volleyball courts, Stearns Wharf, and the pin-prick sparkle of the ocean. The sky flew above like a taut blue sail. I was already in a bad mood.

  I had spent the morning canceling my credit cards and arranging to get a duplicate driver’s license. The bridal shop phoned to tell me they’d lost my measurements and I should come in for another fitting. And, the pièce de résistance, Jesse called with the news that Mari Vasquez Diamond was threatening to sue him, me, and Sanchez Marks for intentional infliction of emotional distress.

  And I had stayed up most of the night, peeking through the curtains of my poolside room at the Holiday Inn, watching to see if Franklin Brand did anything. He didn’t. He kept the curtains drawn. He received no visitors. When I walked past his door I heard the television droning. The only activity along his wing of the motel was in the connecting room next to his, which I saw through the open door: Maintenance was working on a leak in the ceiling. After three a.m., espresso couldn’t keep me alert. Eventually fretting over who stole my things, and how the thieves were connected to Brand, couldn’t either.