My eyes were so fixed on what looked like cosmetic surgery scars behind his ears that I didn’t at first realize I was holding my breath. Relax, Tucker, I told myself. This isn’t breaking and entering. You paid big bucks for this weenie roast. Well, if you couldn’t trust your inner voice, who could you trust? I felt a little calmer, but not much. Mostly, I felt my heart pounding.
Covington’s voice was low, but I thought I heard him say, “Don’t touch the paintings, María.”
“Sew-rhee,” she said in heavily accented English. “I dust.”
He took the feather duster from her hand and set it on a nearby end table. “We’re having a party now. You can do that later.”
“Wade, I’d like a word with you. Alone.” It was a woman’s voice, coming from somewhere down the hallway. A mild tremor didn’t mask the nuances of culture in her speech.
The woman said something to the maid in Spanish, and the young girl disappeared down the hall. I moved quickly away from the doorway just as Covington turned toward me. An intense, irrational fear spread through my body, making my legs feel weak and shaky. The last thing I needed was for him to catch me eavesdropping. Better to exit and regroup.
I couldn’t budge the French doors—some kind of security lock. There was no place to hide except under the desk—too risky—or behind the couch—too obvious. The closet was both risky and obvious, but what the heck. I grabbed my purse and dashed over to open the door. Neatly stacked firewood rose from the floor to thigh level. This was going to hurt. I pulled off my jacket and spread it over the wood to protect my legs.
I was just closing the door as Covington entered the den. The louvers created enough of a gap for me both to breathe and see the action. An anorexic-looking woman in her sixties, wearing a dressy pink suit, followed him into the room and closed the door. Her legs were pencil thin. Her hair was gray, styled in an old lady’s do, and she looked as if she’d recently negotiated a quantity discount on pearls.
“I shouldn’t have to remind you”—her tone was stern but respectful—“María is my responsibility. Please don’t interfere.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Vivian. Why don’t you have another drink? Alcohol makes you less imaginative.”
She looked as if he’d physically struck her. There was sadness in her face that was magnified by the sag at the corners of her mouth. Her voice was strained, but she maintained her poise. “We had an understanding.”
“I think we should go outside now, dear. The party’s about to start.”
“I mean it this time, Wade. You manage your empire. Let me handle the rest.”
Something in Vivian’s tone made me question whether the marriage would survive till their fiftieth wedding anniversary. A commotion from outside in the hallway interrupted their heart-to-heart. Covington walked over and opened the door.
“What’s going on?”
“Sorry, Mr. Covington. I told her to leave.” I recognized the harsh and edgy voice of Maroon Hair from the catering service. “I was on the phone with the rental company. There was nothing I could do.”
Standing next to her, framed by the doorway, was a paunchy bald man in his fifties who looked as if he was a charter member of the Cholesterol 300 Club. He was wearing the blue blazer and gray slacks uniform of the security team and carrying a handheld radio.
“We have a possible intruder, sir,” he said to Covington. “Entered the house about ten, fifteen minutes ago.”
Covington’s body stiffened. Vivian slid quietly onto the couch.
“What do you suggest?” Covington asked him.
“Better leave, sir, while we search the house. My man’s right outside. He’ll be with you all the way.”
“All right, then,” he said, nodding his wife toward the door. “We’ll join our guests outside.”
As the Covingtons disappeared into the hallway, the security guard parked his butt on the pricey desk and spoke into the radio. “Deeg, this is Buck. Got your ears on? Female, white, medium-length brown hair, five-eight to five-nine, thin build, age twenty-five to thirty, white over light brown skirt, a looker. Entered the main residence at approximately eleven-thirty hours. Last known location was the main kitchen area.”
Wait a minute. Except for the looker part, he could be talking about me. Me, an intruder? Great! Not only was my inner voice a failure at serenity coaching, it lied. I was in trouble.
The wood pressed into my skin, and my left leg tingled. I didn’t dare move for fear the shifting logs would roll me right into Buck’s steely handcuffs. Luckily, air was filtering through the louvers, but it was still hot and stuffy in there. I imagined termites in search of lunch. At the back of the closet was a hinged door with a deadbolt. I’d seen this setup before. It was designed to load wood from outside, to avoid carrying it through the house. In this case, it looked as though someone had made the opening accessible from the inside only, probably for security reasons.
Buck’s next official communiqué didn’t exactly lift my spirits.
“I’ll start upstairs. You cover the lower floor,” he said as he headed for the hallway. “And, big guy? Keep your gun in the holster. Could just be a lookie-loo from the party. Capisce?”
Hide, run, hide, run? More decisions. Let’s see, Deeg is a big guy with an itchy trigger finger and he’s looking for me downstairs. I am downstairs. Well, that was easy. I allowed myself a couple of deep breaths to regain my composure, and carefully turned the deadbolt on the woodshed’s back hatch to open the door. I maneuvered my buns toward the edge, careful not to upset the logs, until my feet dangled just above the ground. It was only a small leap for womankind, but unfortunately, my left leg was snoozing. It collapsed as I landed. I reached out my hand to steady myself and triggered a log avalanche. The sound was deafening.
All limbs were in working order, so I grabbed my purse and hopped away on my good leg. When I hit the grass, I pulled off my shoes and tucked them under my armpit. They’d only slow me down. Let the Deegster work for his paycheck. The prickles in my leg eased, and I ran like hell. A disguise would be good. I grabbed a blue napkin from one of the catering stations. Not exactly chic, but it would have to do. I folded the napkin in a triangle and tied it around my neck like a scarf. Even Pookie wouldn’t recognize me now.
Many of the guests had taken their seats, but at least a hundred people still mingled and chatted in small groups. I slowed my pace and looked for a pod I could melt into. Jim Bob Boshanty was still holding court with a group of six or seven diehards, so I sidled to the back of the pack and tried to look enraptured.
“I loved you in Moroccan Knights. The Academy robbed you that year.” A fleshy woman in her sixties, reeking of Shalimar, fluttered her eyelashes. Jim Bob nodded, aglow in the adoration of his fans. “Your Hassim the thief was . . .”
Blah, blah, blah. I stopped listening and scouted the grounds for Deeg and Buck. Nada. Then it hit me. What was I thinking? I was at a charity luncheon. I’d paid to get in. I hadn’t done anything wrong. Why was I standing here with grass-stained feet poking out of shredded panty hose? A little voice came back with an answer: because they think you’re a stalker, dummy. Okay, but I could work with that. I decided to take action, so I put on my shoes.
“Oh, look, there he is.” The Shalimar lady gushed, and pointed her chubby white finger toward Covington, who was stepping up to a microphone on the dais. “Wade supports so many causes. Wonderful man.” Jim Bob didn’t look as if he appreciated the focus shifting to someone else, but the woman gushed on. “It’s about time he got what he deserved.” A few moments later, she dabbed her hankie at what I could only guess was perspiration in her cleavage, and toddled toward the seating area.
Covington spoke a few words of welcome to the crowd before settling down for lunch at the head table, next to his wife. As people stopped to shake his hand, I studied his face. Too bad nothing in that expression told me why he’d taken Teresa García’s chart from the Center. The file was stamped with NeuroMe
d’s address, so Polk or one of his technicians had obviously administered neurological tests to the girl, but how long ago, and why? I wouldn’t know that until I got home and searched the file more carefully.
I was still trying to puzzle it out when I spotted Richard Hastings, sitting at one of the prime front tables. He was smiling in that smarmy, obsequious way of his as he helped the Shalimar lady settle into the chair next to him. Events weren’t shaping up as I’d planned. The window of opportunity for normal conversation with Covington had closed, and Hastings’s presence at the luncheon made one thing clear: I had to get out of here. I couldn’t risk getting arrested for prowling with my nemesis looking on. I hurried toward the exit, but a catering van was blocking my way out. I was in the process of squeezing between the van and the hedge when I heard the ear-splitting voice of Maroon Hair.
“I’ll hold the salads for fifteen, but that’s the max.” She handed a set of keys to the young man I’d seen running through the kitchen earlier. “Get me plates. Steal them if you have to.”
The catering van’s engine roared to life. I melted into the hedge to protect my toes from tire tracks as it peeled away. When the exhaust fumes cleared, I found myself face-to-face with she-of-the-maroon-hair. She stared blankly at me for a moment before screaming, “It’s her. The stalker—over here!”
It was one of those defining moments when a person could choose to do the mature thing—or not. I ran toward the exit and was nearing the gate when I heard, “Stop—security!” I kept running. I heard heavy breathing behind me. When I turned around to look, my foot caught on something poking out of the grass, and my legs went flying out from under me. A moment or two later two beefy arms pulled me up and pinned me, bear-hug style, against a hard body. I tried to kick the guy’s shins, but my shoes had fallen off. The best I could hope to inflict was killer grass-stains.
“You tripped me, you Neanderthal!” I shouted.
“I think not,” he said, “but I’ll let you go if you promise to be good.”
I could feel his warm breath in my ear. “Eat shit and die.”
He laughed. “You got a mouth on you.”
There wasn’t much wriggle room, but I tried to find some anyway. The effort caused my breath to come in short gasps. The guy was very strong and very determined. He smelled good, too. What was that fragrance?
“I can’t breathe,” I said.
I hoped that didn’t sound as wimpy to him as it did to me, but I was starting to feel faint. He eased his grip but didn’t let go. I took a couple more gulps of air and hoped we looked like prom royalty at a photo shoot and not a promo for America’s Most Wanted. Buck the Enforcer came running up to us. His face was red. Perspiration soaked his shirtfront.
“ID’d her yet, Deeg?”
“Not yet,” he said. “We’re still getting to know each other. But I’m pretty sure she’s not strapped.”
They both snickered. Strapped? Must be some kind of bouncer lingo.
“Mind telling me who you are, ma’am?” Buck was speaking in faux-polite, looking stern and squinty-eyed.
I didn’t care if the big guy’s trigger finger did get itchy—I’d had enough.
“I’ll get my driver’s license and show you who I am, if you tell this dildo to let me go.”
Deeg chuckled.
Buck eyed me suspiciously. “I’ll get it for you, if you don’t mind.”
“Would it make any difference if I did?” I said sarcastically.
“No, ma’am,” he said. “It wouldn’t.”
My pulse was just beginning to slow down when I remembered that Teresa García’s file was in my purse. I closed my eyes and waited for disaster to strike.
As Buck pawed through my bag, I realized that the faint aroma of Deeg’s aftershave was pear. I also became aware of his arms wrapped around me, and of his chin resting on my head.
Buck pulled out the crumpled file and looked at it briefly. Then he stuffed it back inside my purse. Only then did I allow myself to breathe normally. Buck inspected the two-grand credit card receipt. He checked out my driver’s license, looking carefully at the photo, and then at me.
“Brown hair. Brown eyes. Five-nine. Hundred and—”
“Enough already,” I said. “It’s me, okay?”
“What were you doing in the house, ma’am?” Buck asked.
“I stepped inside to use the can, and the next thing I know, Deeg here is playing anaconda.”
The Deegster chuckled softly again.
“So where were you going in such a hurry?” Buck continued.
“Nordstrom’s half-yearly sale?”
Buck looked irked. “Let her go,” he said to Deeg.
Deeg increased the pressure for a moment, almost like a hug, before releasing me. “Ahh, and just when we were getting to know each other.”
“We’ll do it again some time,” I said to him with all the snide I could muster.
“Careful what you wish for.”
When I turned to face Deeg for the first time, I realized he was definitely not one of the guys at the front gate. I would have remembered that. He was masculine and good-looking in a bionic sort of way. Six-two, lean, hard body, about 185 in his birthday suit, and I was good at numbers. He had spiky brown hair, killer blue-gray eyes, and was the kind of guy you dreamed would try to pick you up but never did. Except today, and much too literally.
While I was watching him, he was watching me with a look that wasn’t at all cocky, just self-assured and perhaps too familiar for my taste. I knew his type: amusing to take as your date to a high school reunion as long as you didn’t mind watching him flirt with former members of the cheerleading squad, women who’d never been your friends but were now on your hit list.
Deeg took my license from Buck’s outstretched hand and read it. Then he frowned in thought. When he looked up at me, the intensity of his appraisal made me uncomfortable.
“I think we can let Ms. Sinclair go,” he said.
That surprised me, and Buck, too. But where I undoubtedly looked relieved, Buck looked annoyed. The two of them exchanged some kind of bouncer telepathy, and Buck reluctantly handed me my purse.
“Sorry, ma’am,” Buck said, “but we can’t be too careful.”
Buck walked a few feet away and spoke into his radio.
A smile turned up the corners of Deeg’s mouth, engaged his eyes, and eventually his entire face. “Nice outfit,” he said. “But under the circumstances, I think you should leave that here.”
I realized he was referring to the napkin still tied around my neck. I removed it, and as he took it from me, his fingers lingered on mine too long to be accidental. I jerked my hand away. He responded with a funny half smile-half frown as if my gesture had given him an important clue. The guy liked to push buttons. There was something about him that made me think he was trouble—I just didn’t know what kind yet. Luckily, Buck chose that time to wander back.
“I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask you to leave, Ms. Sinclair,” he said.
I didn’t like Buck’s attitude. I had been leaving before the two of them started hassling me.
“Yeah?” I said. “You and who else?”
“That would be me and Mr. Wade Covington, ma’am. He said if you weren’t off his property in five minutes, he’d call the police.”
Deeg frowned. Maybe he thought that was no way to treat a lady, or maybe he was disappointed that he wouldn’t have time to invite me for a little one-on-one in the backseat of his bouncer car.
“Mr. Deegan here will escort you out,” Buck continued.
Well, that made sense. At least I didn’t have to ask him what kind of a bullshit name Deeg was.
“Don’t bother,” I said. “I know the way.”
My keen sense of direction didn’t deter Deegan from stepping forward and putting his hand on my elbow. Under different circumstances, it would have felt sort of silly and old-fashioned, but I didn’t like being herded, especially now, so I shook him off. He grinned.
The guy thought everything I did was a riot.
As we walked toward the valet, I sensed that Deegan was about to tell me something, but he must have thought better of it, because in the end, all I got was a slightly raised eyebrow when the valet brought the Boxster around. His send-off was an irreverent salute and a smile that lesser women might call sexy. I called it a waste of my time and his energy.
It wasn’t until I reached the on-ramp to the freeway that I realized my jacket was missing. A sick feeling roiled through my body when I realized that there was only one place it could be: in Wade Covington’s den closet, spread out like a picnic blanket on a pile of firewood, with my name tag still clipped to the lapel.
If Covington would have me arrested for merely being at his party, what would he do when he found out I’d been eavesdropping in his wood closet and stealing files from his briefcase? I was screwed.
17
as soon as I realized that I’d left my jacket in Covington’s closet, I was on my cell phone with Venus. I needed someone to talk to, and she was the only friend who might seriously consider a commando raid to rescue it. But she told me no how, no way. She was tied up in meetings for the rest of the day but agreed to meet me the following morning for breakfast to debrief. That would have to do.
On the way home I tried to imagine what Deegan’s first name might be, mostly to curb my nervous energy, rather than for any real interest in knowing. Maxwell or Lowell? No, too intellectual. Deegan was more the physical type. Chip? Whitey? Dude was more likely.
By the time I drove into the tunnel transitioning from the noise, grit, and endless traffic of the 10 Freeway onto Pacific Coast Highway, it was late afternoon. The small circle of light guiding me to the tunnel’s exit widened to reveal palisades eroded by wind and rain, four lonely palm trees huddled together on the sand, and the Pacific Ocean stretching far away to the western horizon. I’d just passed the lime green shamrocks on Patrick’s Roadhouse when my cell phone rang. It was Gordon. How was I? he wanted to know.
“Peachy-keen, and you?”
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