Mission Canyon

by Meg Gardiner

  ‘‘Be glad you don’t work there anymore, Amber.’’

  Her forehead crinkled with confusion.

  ‘‘Lucky you got another job so quickly,’’ I said.

  ‘‘Mrs. Diamond put in a good word.’’

  ‘‘Mrs. Mari-with-the-yapping-Chihuahua Diamond?’’

  ‘‘For all of us who got laid off.’’ She played with her hair. ‘‘I know what you’re thinking: She’s scary. She is. But, because of the circumstances, she did it.’’

  ‘‘What circumstances?’’

  The counterman called our orders. Amber’s selections took up three-fourths of the table. Her burrito was a glistening package the size of a cat.

  I said again, ‘‘What circumstances?’’

  ‘‘The divorce.’’

  My taco looked magnificent, with the shredded chicken and salsa and cheese. I didn’t even take a bite.

  ‘‘Whose divorce?’’

  ‘‘The Diamonds’.’’

  ‘‘When did this happen?’’

  ‘‘The day of his heart attack. That’s what they were yelling about in his office before he collapsed, I heard.’’

  I put my taco down. Thinking, But I’m the one she slapped that day. Or maybe just the last one she slapped.

  Amber twitched on the plastic chair. ‘‘What you told me, about your friend whose brother died? What’s going on with that?’’

  ‘‘He was run down and killed by Mako’s former VP of business development.’’

  She put a forkful of burrito in her mouth. ‘‘Who?’’

  I looked around and saw a pile of newspapers on a table. I got them, riffled through, and found a photo of Brand at the courthouse. She looked at it, chewing.

  ‘‘I know him,’’ she said.

  ‘‘You do?’’

  ‘‘He’s the dog guy.’’

  I watched her chew. ‘‘What dog guy?’’

  ‘‘Who gave Caesar to Mrs. Diamond.’’

  She took another bite. I waved my hands.

  ‘‘Her Chihuahua,’’ she said.

  ‘‘How do you know this?’’

  She wiped the corner of her mouth with a napkin. ‘‘I took some papers to the Diamonds’ house one time. He was there, and Mrs. D was all gushy over this puppy, about the size of a shaved mouse. She said he gave it to her. He . . .’’

  Her face went stark. She was looking over my shoulder, at Kenny Rudenski standing in the doorway.

  He hooked a finger at me. ‘‘Come on, Gidget. Let’s go for a drive.’’

  The last bit was the easiest, though the road was steep and curving. With the hairpin turns Kenny had to slow the Porsche, and I could keep him in sight. It had been tougher following him on the freeway, because he liked to gun the Porsche in and out between cars, as if daring me to keep up. His vanity license plate read KPS3CUR— keep secure—which fit with Mako’s work but not with his driving.

  ‘‘Follow me,’’ he’d said. ‘‘I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.’’

  I wanted to know about Franklin Brand, and Kenny’s connection to him.

  We were now north of Foothill Road and winding upward toward the mountains. The tall grass was yellow in the ravine below. Avocado orchards unrolled green across the foothills, and La Cumbre Peak stretched toward the sky. Houses clung to the slope, huge places with jutting balconies. Downshifting around a switchback, I watched the Porsche brake and turn into a driveway. I followed.

  Kenny’s villa was a Mediterranean fantasy of palms and gold stone, nestled between the road and the ravine. The view took in the city and the Channel Islands. The ocean was a carpet of light, sapphire brilliant.

  He climbed out of the Porsche. ‘‘You stuck to my tail. Not too shabby. Come in; we’ll have a drink.’’

  Next to the front door was a plaque with the name of the house: MISTRYSS. He unlocked the door and I noticed the security camera mounted above the frame. Inside he punched a code into a beeping alarm panel. We walked into an atrium with a skylight, marble floor, and spiral staircase, and from there into a vast living room with white carpeting, a Steinway grand, and Warhol prints bright on the walls. The back of the house was a solid wall of glass facing the ravine. Outside were a swimming pool and an expansive lawn.

  ‘‘Want a beer?’’ he said.

  ‘‘Club soda’s fine.’’

  ‘‘I thought you’d be more fun than that.’’

  ‘‘I need to drive back down the hill.’’

  ‘‘I have chardonnay.’’ He got himself a Beck’s. ‘‘Or something stronger, if your tastes run along another line.’’

  Another line? Did he mean cocaine?

  He said, ‘‘We’re going to spar; you need something to put you in the mood.’’

  ‘‘Spar? I left my mouthguard at the gym.’’

  ‘‘Verbally. Like back at the office.’’ He opened the Beck’s. ‘‘I’ll start. Don’t pump my employees for dirt. Ever.’’

  ‘‘I don’t work for you, Kenny.’’

  ‘‘Anything you want to know, ask me personally. The muff diver isn’t here to stop me from answering.’’

  My mouth felt sour. ‘‘Ah, sparring. Insulting my friends, you mean.’’

  ‘‘It’s no secret about Harley. She’s self-professed. A lioness, and she likes her meat fresh. She teaches that class at the university so she can trawl for students.’’ He pointed the beer bottle at me. ‘‘Were you her student?’’

  He was standing too close again, getting that thirsty look on his face.

  ‘‘No,’’ I said. ‘‘And I’ve changed my mind. Make it champagne.’’

  He snorted. ‘‘Taittinger okay?’’

  ‘‘Sure,’’ I said, pretending I knew what the hell it was.

  He went into the hallway and unlocked a door. I heard him trotting down a staircase and realized I was in a house with an actual wine cellar.

  I gazed around. Framed photos stippled the walls, eight-by-ten glossies of Kenny with athletes, TV stars, and stuntmen. Other pictures showed him motocross racing, dirt bikes skidding through a turn, flinging dust.

  Also framed was a glossy magazine article titled, ‘‘Santa Barbara’s Most Eligible Bachelors.’’ Kenny’s photo showed him posed against the hood of his Porsche. The copy gushed, describing him as the ‘‘scion of the Mako technology empire.’’ It skimmed over a divorce, and turned maudlin. ‘‘But Kenny’s life isn’t all power lunches and glittering charity balls. He has a sensitive side, and it has been brushed with tragedy.’’ It mentioned the death of a high school girlfriend, quoting Kenny: ‘‘When I lost Yvette, I withdrew into my studies. Even today, I tend to shield myself with my work. It will take a special lady to hold my attention.’’

  No, I thought; it will take an antimatter lady to repel your relentless flirting.

  And then I felt callous. I wondered if losing this girl was what turned Kenny toward risk taking. Death sometimes did. Maybe that, rather than overweening ego, explained his fascination with motorcycles and fast cars. The braggart, the daredevil persona, hiding the fearful boy desperate to feel in control.

  I wandered further around the living room. The Warhols overlooked a collection of sports memorabilia: display cases filled with auto racing souvenirs. There was a crash helmet signed by Dale Earnhardt. A pair of driving gloves with the label, AYRTON SENNA. And a Nomex driving suit with an illegible signature. The label said, MARK DONOHUE, INDIANAPOLIS 1972.

  I heard footsteps coming back up the stairs from the cellar, the door shutting, and a key turning in the lock. A moment later a cork popped, and soon Kenny came into the living room carrying my glass of champagne.

  He found me looking at his memorabilia. ‘‘You like auto racing?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know much about it.’’

  He handed me the champagne and gestured to the display cases. ‘‘Mark Donohue was an Indy Five Hundred winner. Senna had to be the greatest Formula One driver ever. Dale Earnhardt was a NASCAR legend.’’

&n
bsp; I noticed the past tense. I looked at the displays again, getting a funny feeling.

  ‘‘They all died on the track, didn’t they?’’

  He touched each case in turn, tracing his fingers up and down the Plexiglas. ‘‘Donohue practicing for the 1975 Austrian Grand Prix. Senna at Imola, 1994. Earnhardt— what can you say? Bought it on the final lap of the Daytona Five Hundred. February eighteenth, 2001.’’

  This champagne, too, was spectacular. What had I been drinking all my life, dishwashing liquid? Kenny stared at the Senna display for a moment longer, his fingers working on the Plexiglas.

  ‘‘They’re all race-worn items. Primo, primo stuff.’’ He turned on a boyish smile, but I didn’t think his primary interest in these things was financial.

  I looked around. ‘‘Now I understand all your security precautions.’’

  ‘‘Hey, security’s my business.’’ He waved a hand around the room. ‘‘Camera’s on you right now.’’

  Another sour note. ‘‘So much for privacy.’’

  ‘‘Privacy is dead, Gidget. We’re in the era of total surveillance.’’ He drank his beer.

  ‘‘All hail Big Brother.’’

  ‘‘Sweetheart, corporate America is Big Brother,’’ he said. ‘‘Know how much technology exists to invade your privacy? Start with Web cookies tracking the sites you visit. Smart cards with ID chips. Biometric software that performs voice or retina recognition. Cell phones that work as personal trackers. Parents who want to microchip their kids so they can know where they are every second of their lives.’’

  ‘‘You trying to scare me, or give me a sales pitch?’’

  ‘‘I’m asking, do you think these things are threats, or conveniences? You want absolute privacy? Of course not. It would be a nightmare for national security, law enforcement, public health, and free speech.’’

  He stood back and took a long draft of the beer.

  ‘‘You’re good, Kenny.’’

  ‘‘You bet your bottom dollar. That’s why I’m VP of marketing.’’ He finished the beer and threw the bottle in a wastebasket. ‘‘Okay, the ballbuster isn’t here. What do you really want to know?’’

  ‘‘When did you find out that Brand was embezzling money from Mako?’’

  ‘‘A month after he skipped town.’’

  He couldn’t have sounded more casual. He ambled to the bar and got another beer.

  He said, ‘‘I take it you’re talking about the Firedog thing. What happened, your buddy the professor figure it out?’’

  ‘‘In essence.’’

  ‘‘What, it turns out his brother kept records?’’

  ‘‘Didn’t Mako?’’ I said.

  ‘‘Yeah, but you can guess. Frank cooked the books. He set up a fake round of investment funding in Firedog and gifted it to himself. And when a clerk in our treasury department got finicky and called Firedog to ask where their share certificates were, the prof’s brother—’’

  ‘‘Isaac Sandoval.’’ Blessed Mary, couldn’t he remember Isaac’s name?

  ‘‘Yeah. He pestered Frank about it. So Frank counterfeited the certificates and handed them in to Mako’s treasury.’’

  ‘‘How did he expect to get away with it?’’ I said.

  ‘‘He used the angel fund like a three-card monte game. Now you see it, now you don’t, now it’s over there. And he was a VP at Mako. Nobody questioned him.’’

  ‘‘You’re going to tell the police all this, I presume.’’

  ‘‘No. This is a private conversation.’’

  I felt my face heating. ‘‘Private?’’ I looked around at the air, indicating the security camera he claimed was monitoring us.

  ‘‘If the authorities ever got hold of the record of this conversation, it would show us saying and doing exactly what I want it to. So if you quote me, I’ll deny it.’’ Thirsty smile. ‘‘Unless you’d like to continue this discussion over dinner.’’

  I put down my champagne. ‘‘No, thank you.’’

  ‘‘Your loss.’’ He was still smiling. ‘‘Sure you don’t want something stronger than Taittinger?’’

  Again with the innuendo. Did he mean drugs or sex? ‘‘I’m sure. Thanks for the drink.’’

  I headed out the front door. I heard music coming from an upstairs window, and looked up at a balcony. Someone was sitting outside, a young woman, from the look of the bare feet propped on the railing. I couldn’t see past her knees, but caught sight of an unusual tattoo. It looked like a black snake running up her leg.

  Kenny stood in the doorway. ‘‘Call me, Gidget. Anytime. I’m always happy to talk.’’

  When I got home, I called Harley Dawson.

  ‘‘What, precisely, is wrong with Kenny Rudenski? Does he have an extra chromosome? He wanted to discuss Isaac’s murder over dinner.’’

  ‘‘I know, he’s incorrigible,’’ she said. ‘‘Listen, he isn’t a bad guy, but he’s up to his neck in what’s about to become very nasty publicity for Mako.’’

  ‘‘He has a funny way of handling pressure. Using death as a pickup line.’’

  ‘‘This is going to trash Mako’s reputation. George Rudenski grew his company by building secure networks for defense contractors and outfits like the NSA. How’s it going to look that he didn’t know one of his VPs was sticking his hand in the cookie jar, right down the hall from him?’’

  ‘‘Do you mean Kenny didn’t tell his dad about the missing stock certificates?’’

  ‘‘He thought he could handle it by himself.’’

  I held tight to the phone, saying nothing, hearing dead air on the other end. Did Harley realize what she had just done?

  ‘‘Evan—I didn’t mean to say that.’’

  She had just violated attorney-client privilege, telling me about private discussions with the Rudenskis.

  ‘‘Please . . . Oh, shit.’’ She breathed into the receiver. ‘‘Just . . . can you just forget I ever said that?’’

  But the genie was out of the bottle. ‘‘Unless I’m asked.’’

  ‘‘Damn it, cut me some slack here.’’

  ‘‘Harley, what is going on with you?’’

  ‘‘It’s this Brand garbage. Christ on a pony, the SEC’s going to land on Mako. Shareholders will file class action lawsuits.’’

  ‘‘Excuse me?’’ I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. ‘‘This ‘Brand garbage’? We’re talking about the murder of a young man.’’

  There was a long pause. ‘‘Please, Evan. Please forget it.’’

  I didn’t know what to say.

  Jesse took a break for lunch around one thirty. He headed down to the market on the street corner. There were tables on the sidewalk. The owner went out periodically and asked the homeless man not to shout religious slogans at passing cars. Jesse got an Italian meatball sandwich and a salad.

  He decided to eat at a table outside, in the shade, rather than go back to the office. Get a few minutes to himself, think. He took off his half-fingered gloves and picked up the sandwich.

  The fat man was sitting at the table next to him. He was dressed in black. Reeboks, bulging jeans, T-shirt. His round-rimmed glasses looked as if they’d been nudged halfway into his eye sockets. The chin beard was a just ginger squiggle below his lips. He looked like a helium-balloon version of a French intellectual. Inflatable Sartre.

  He caught Jesse’s eye. ‘‘Can I borrow your pepper shaker?’’

  ‘‘Sure.’’

  Jesse leaned forward to pick it up. When he did, the man reached out, grabbed the wheelchair, and pulled him backward to his own table.

  ‘‘The hell are you doing? Stop.’’

  The man dropped a manila envelope in his lap. ‘‘Some photos for you.’’ He stood up. ‘‘We’ll be in touch. Bon appetit.’’

  Inside, the deli man heard Jesse raising his voice, and went to the door. He saw the fat guy hunkering away and Jesse looking at something from an envelope, maybe pictures. Jesse pinched the bridge of his nose. Then
he ripped the pictures up.

  13

  The dog guy.

  Amber Gibbs had called Franklin Brand the dog guy. At the Holiday Inn, I had thought I heard a Chihuahua. Mari and Cal Diamond were divorcing just when Brand turned up in town. One plus one plus one equaled . . . what? I needed to know. And, given Amber’s volubility and apparent lack of discretion, I needed to cultivate her as an inside source. I phoned Mako.

  She answered, ‘‘I listen to Santa Barbara’s hottest hits on KHOT-FM!’’

  A radio deejay chattered in the background, promoting the station’s phone contest.

  ‘‘Amber, Evan Delaney. We were talking at Jerry’s.’’

  ‘‘Oh, right.’’ She cleared her throat, started over. ‘‘Mako Technologies.’’

  I rubbed my eyes. ‘‘You were telling me about Franklin Brand being friends with Mari Diamond.’’

  ‘‘Yeah, and now it’s creeping me out. He killed a guy, and I was in the same room with him.’’

  How blunt should I be? Silly question. ‘‘Was Mrs. Diamond having an affair with him?’’

  A pause. ‘‘I hadn’t thought about that.’’

  She went quiet, maybe engaging her brain in thought neuron by neuron. I sat down at my desk and logged onto my e-mail account.

  I said, ‘‘What do other people at Mako say?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know.’’

  ‘‘If you hear, would you let me know?’’

  ‘‘Sure. I—’’ In the background, the radio was urging listeners to call in. ‘‘Gotta go. I’ll talk to you later.’’

  My e-mail program chimed. I had a message from Jakarta Rivera and Tim North.

  It was a proposed book contract. They offered me a fee up front, plus a big chunk of any publishing advance and generous royalties. They wanted their names on the cover, but offered me ‘‘as told to’’ credit. The price was good, the terms all reasonable. Then they signed off with this teaser:

  We’re talking twenty-four years’ combined work with the Company and the SIS, plus a decade in private espionage. The real deal, stuff that was black and wet and deep. Come on, we know you’re intrigued.

  Apprehension weeviled up my back again. Black work? Wet work? If they weren’t scamming me, if they were indeed the real deal, they were bad. I deleted it.