by Dete Meserve
He drained his sake. “But what’s got us and the FBI stumped is how the thieves are just walking into some of the most expensive estates in America without breaking and entering.”
“Maybe he’s got a crackerjack locksmith on the team.”
“Takes too long. From start to finish, the heists take under fifteen minutes. There isn’t time to pick the lock.”
“Maybe the estate staff left the doors unlocked.”
He shook his head. “Didn’t happen. A detective friend who’s on the case says police verified that the doors were locked. And they were still locked when police arrived.”
“The thieves locked the doors after they left?” I said a bit too loudly. “How?”
“Exactly. Where did they get the keys? You’ve got this high-tech heist, but all of these homes still have low-tech deadbolts that require traditional keys.”
“They paid off the staff at each estate? Maybe the security guards?”
“After dozens of interviews, there’s no evidence—or suspicion—that any of the estate help was in on this. It’s like Robin Hood is a ghost, walking through walls.”
A ghost walking through walls.
Switzer Falls is a trail in the San Gabriel Mountains about thirty minutes’ drive from my apartment. I wasn’t much of a hiker, but I did own a pair of expensive hiking boots I’d bought from REI after my friend Teri convinced me to go on a nighttime hike in Griffith Park with the Sierra Club. She ended up bailing on the hike because of the flu, and the pristine boots ended up in the back of my closet. Until today.
Once I passed through the graffiti-marred entrance to Switzer Falls in the Angeles National Forest, I was transported to a place I didn’t know existed in LA. There was a light mist in the air from the streams that crisscrossed the trail, rare moisture in normally arid LA. Even the noise from the busy freeway a few miles away was hushed by the sound of rushing and bubbling water.
Eric was waiting for me at the trailhead wearing jeans and a blue plaid shirt and carrying a small pack on his back. There was an awkward tension between us as he hugged me. “Do you want to start walking?”
“No,” I said quietly. “I want to know about Carrie.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m sorry about how that went down. Really, I am. I swear, nothing happened between us. She was in LA because her father was injured. Her mother just died and she’s going through a divorce. I was trying to help her out.”
I felt a braid of tension growing in my chest. “Are you in love with her?”
The question seemed to surprise him. “No. And she knew it. Even when I was helping her and her dad, she’d tell me, ‘Your mind is somewhere else.’ And she was right. I was thinking about you.”
“Were you ever in love with her?”
“What we had was casual. And it’s in the past.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about her? Why did you keep it a secret?”
He was silent for a long moment, looking down at his hands then back at me. “I don’t have a good answer for that, Kate. I’ve been going through a lot, settling Brian’s estate and…”
Like any good reporter, I wanted to press for a better answer. But there was something about the gentle way he spoke and the way his brown eyes met mine that made me stop asking questions. For now. “Want to start walking?”
The canyon walls, bigcone Douglas-firs, and California Black Oaks at Switzer Falls are so towering that I couldn’t help but feel small and insignificant as we walked along the leaf-carpeted forest floor. A few yards down the path, the trail ended abruptly and we reached a rock-strewn stream swollen with rainwater. It would definitely require some boulder hopping to make it across the twenty-foot span.
I’m a city girl with great skills at navigating traffic snarls, but I don’t have much experience balancing on slippery rocks and fording a rushing stream. The sun wasn’t helping either. It was hiding behind gray clouds, making the whole setting look even more foreboding. And while I was slowly making my peace with water after my near drowning a few months ago, I still didn’t trust it. Especially when it was studded with sharp rocks.
I considered suggesting that we head back. But just as I was about to say something, Eric took my hand. “You can do this.”
The first softball-size rocks were in shallow water and close together—relatively easy to navigate. I steadied myself on each one of them by holding on to his hand. But as we reached the middle of the stream, the water became deep and the rocks spread farther out.
“You okay?” he said, looking back at me.
“I’d be okay if we headed back,” I said, my ankles wobbling.
He scanned the stream behind me. “We’re too far in to go backward from here,” he said. “It’s easier if you hop quickly.”
He let go of my hand and I watched him hop the next three boulders swiftly, as if he were a gazelle in the wild. In three graceful jumps, he was now fifteen feet away from me on shore. Then he turned to me, his arms outstretched, beckoning me to follow. “You won’t fall in,” he said, his voice muffled by the sound of the rushing water.
I wished I had the confidence that he had in me, because I was pretty sure my next step would land me straight in the water. The distance to the next rock was too great. And while the white caps on the fast-moving water looked like something from a National Geographic photograph, I knew the danger that lurked beneath. I stood there a long moment, knowing that I couldn’t go back and yet terrified of taking the next leap.
I imagined the worst—falling in the stream, sinking under water, hitting my head on a rock, going unconscious. Balancing on the tip of a rock in the middle of a swollen stream, all of those were very possible. And even though Eric was a swift-water rescue expert, they somehow didn’t seem less likely.
A fat raindrop splattered on my cheek. Great. Now I was going to be stuck in a river—okay, a deep stream—in a rainstorm. As I teetered on the rocks in the stream, ragged gusts of moist wind rushed up and whipped at my hair. Rain was definitely coming. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, I felt the courage rise in me and in one unexpected and somewhat graceful move, I leapt four boulders and was completely surprised to be standing next to Eric. Dry.
He squeezed my hand. “You were like a water ninja out there.”
Anyone else saying those words might have sounded patronizing, but after all we’d been through with water, I knew his pride was genuine.
We continued on the narrow trail, which opened up suddenly to a majestic rock formation hugged by tall, gnarly trees that looked like they’d been there forever. He sat on a fallen tree trunk and motioned for me to sit beside him. He opened up his pack and peeled an orange.
“I used to hike here with Brian. Wish you could’ve met him. He could make even an ordinary hike like this feel like we were embarking on a once-in-a-lifetime adventure.” His voice drifted off. His eyes expressed more than he said in words. “Carrie remembered what it was like when he was alive. She remembered the small stuff and the big stuff—I didn’t know then how important those moments would be to me now. That’s what it was all about when I was with her. Remembering what we did with Brian.”
I hadn’t understood the depths of grief that still hung over him after Brian’s death. I had always assumed that once we found happiness together, his grief had somehow faded away. But grief is a journey without a clear ending.
“I think that’s why I didn’t tell you about her,” he said. “I didn’t want to admit that I was stuck in the past. Stuck remembering when Brian was still alive. Losing him has been harder than anything I’ve ever had to do. I’ve seen people die, watched them die in front of me, after hours of trying to save them. But Brian’s death still hits me in a way that…I can’t describe.”
I was ashamed at my selfishness. All this time, I had been seeing Carrie as someone who had stolen his heart away, when in reality she was Eric’s portal to the past, a time when Brian was alive and the world felt warm a
nd unending. I’d been focused on the choices ahead of me and failed to see that Eric was still grieving, choosing instead to see him how I wanted to see him: a strong and courageous firefighter who risked his life to save others. But even brave men like Eric can’t survive long on a pedestal.
“Now I’m the one who’s sorry,” I said, leaning my head on his shoulder. “I didn’t realize how much you were still hurting.”
I could see his grief coiled in his chest, as though pain were something visible. “There’s one thing I’ve learned from grief, and that’s how enormous and how powerful love can be. I love you, Kate.”
I hadn’t expected that. But the look in his eyes left no doubt that he meant it. As the rain began to fall, he cupped my face in his hands and eased into a long, lazy kiss. He laced his fingers through my hair and deepened the kiss until the heaviness inside me lifted. I’d missed him.
We held each other for a long time, listening to the gentle rain tapping on the leaves above us. It felt good to be with him again, his arms wrapped around me. But as I breathed in his familiar clean scent and felt his heart beating through his light jacket, I knew something was wrong.
He brushed a lock of damp hair from my face. He smiled at me with tears in his eyes. “I’ve lost Brian and now I’m about to lose you. It’s killing me that you are going to New York and I can’t go with you.”
I closed my eyes, wishing the words away. Something deep inside me ached.
A tear escaped my eye and rolled down my cheek. I brushed it away. “We can make this work long-distance,” I whispered. “I know we can.”
“We can try. But it won’t be enough. If we want to build a life together, we have to be in the same place.”
He kissed me again and I missed him already. Our days and nights together. His smiles in the dark. I missed him already.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Later that day as my agent Sharon rattled off the remaining fine points of the deal with ANC, I felt a buzzing sensation in my arms and head as though my body had an alarm system that had been tripped. But there was no Off switch.
“At what point would it be too late to back out?” I asked.
Her tone was clipped, impatient. “We’re beyond that point. You received the agreements I sent, didn’t you?”
I stared at the documents, neatly bound with black binder clips and bright yellow “Sign Here” flags. Then I remembered the way Eric held my hand as he pointed out the constellations in the night sky over a rolling surf at Zuma Beach. I thought about the time we stayed up until four in the morning watching scary Halloween movies, his arms wrapped around me, making me feel safe. How would I survive being away from him for days and weeks—into forever?
“Everyone gets cold feet when they get to a finish line on a deal this big,” she said. “Sign the papers this morning and send them back to me. Then you can celebrate with some bubbly.”
I couldn’t imagine celebrating. Instead I scrawled my signature on all the agreements. Then I sat at my desk in the newsroom, staring at the blur of reporters making last-minute hurried phone calls and producers rushing to assemble the noon cast, certain I was making all the wrong decisions.
My father was extending an olive branch. That could be the only reason for his tone, soft and punctuated with uncomfortable laughs. My dad was never at a loss for words, but that morning he was stumbling all over them.
“I’ve arranged for you to meet—well, interview—three of the estate owners…three of the robbery victims,” he said.
He’d called me on my cell during the assignment meeting, so I ducked out of the Fish Bowl and into the hallway. I was certain I had misheard him. “What did you say?”
“They’ve agreed to speak with you…together…on camera.”
I knew better than to get excited. An interview this big had to have strings attached. “Which estate owners and what are their conditions?”
“The owners of El Mirasol, La Villa de la Paz, and Chateau de Soleil. And, as far as I know, there are no conditions.”
I leaned my head against the wall. “Hard to believe. Are these men your friends? Campaign supporters?”
The soft lilt in his voice was a sign he was relaxing. “I know Stephen Bening, of course. And so do you. I have well-placed friends who know the others.”
I slid into the empty conference room across the hall and closed the door. The idea that the billionaires would offer to do an interview with me was preposterous. Far-fetched. “Why are they agreeing to do it?”
“Does it really matter? They’ve agreed to be interviewed together. Ask whatever questions you want.”
“They want to strike back at Robin Hood. Through the media. That can be the only reason they’d let me interview them.”
“All I know is that they want to tell their side of the Robin Hood story. And I told them you were the best reporter to interview them.”
I leaned back in the chair and stared at the ceiling. It was an odd feeling, one that was entirely new for me. I didn’t trust my own father. “What’s this really about, Dad?”
His voice was heavy. “I’m trying to help you, Katie.”
Anger flashed through me. “Now you’re trying to help me? How many times did you demand that I stop reporting on this story? You even disinvited me to the luncheon with the First Lady.”
He cleared his throat. “Not my finest hour. And after that conversation at the luncheon, I started thinking about your mother. Something I hadn’t done in a very long time.”
He was quiet for a beat, which made me nervous, so I jumped in to fill the silence.
“My mother?”
“There was an antique store next to where I had lunch last week. They had an entire window display of Depression glass. Royal Lace cobalt blue, just like she collected.”
“My mother collected Depression glass?”
“Whenever we traveled, we had to stop by antique stores to see what treasures they had. She always said she loved four things most of all. You, of course. Me, most of the time. Her work in the mayor’s office. And that Depression glass.” I could hear his smile through the phone. “And it occurred to me that if she were around today, she’d tell me that no matter what pressure I was under, I shouldn’t put my political problems ahead of your happiness.”
“Dad, I—”
“We would’ve argued about whether I was actually doing that, of course. We were both stubborn that way. But you get your idealism from her and your stubbornness from both of us, unfortunately.”
“I don’t think I’m stubborn—”
“And she would’ve been right, Kate. I’m trying to find a way to make up for what I put you through on this story.”
I felt a pang of remorse for having questioned his motives. And more than a little daunted by an interview with three of the heist victims. As much as the interview was an enormous win for Channel Eleven, I didn’t think it would stir up much sympathy from viewers who were enthralled by whatever daily event Robin Hood held to help the poor and needy.
I worried, too, how it would appear if viewers knew a U.S. senator had arranged the interview. Would it look like I was simply my father’s mouthpiece, as Russ had accused me of being?
And just how forthcoming would any of the owners be? Stephen Bening had been curt and efficient in dismissing Robin Hood’s tactics and unwilling to go much beyond his carefully scripted thoughts. I expected the others would be the same. Worse, the interview probably wouldn’t put me any closer to figuring out who Robin Hood was.
“Thank you. I wasn’t expecting—”
“Thanks for letting me do this,” he said and then brightened. “Now, I warned all three of them that you wouldn’t go easy on them. Go and prove me right.”
The interview was set to be recorded on the patio at Stephen Bening’s Chateau de Soleil. The billionaires had asked to be interviewed in Channel Eleven’s news studios, but there’s a calculated feeling to an interview in a studio
space and I preferred to have it in a more informal setting. Plus, I figured an outdoor setting at one of the residences would put the billionaires at ease and hopefully get them away from the carefully prepared answers they’d surely rehearsed.
The estate’s patio wasn’t just an expansive wraparound veranda with high-end chairs and a marble table. This patio was set on an acre of lush manicured grounds, with sculpted hedges, picture-perfect palm trees, and the cobalt blue Pacific Ocean as a backdrop.
Josh had lit the patio for a prime-time special, using lights and scrims I’d seen used for Diane Sawyer-level interviews. The interview was set for 3:00 p.m., when the afternoon sunlight would add to the effect, giving the Chateau de Soleil a dreamy, fairy-tale quality.
To prep for the interview, I read everything Hannah put in front of me about the three billionaire victims. I’d even made it most of the way through Stephen Bening’s book, marking key points with purple Post-it notes. I arrived early, hoping to calm my nerves and go over the questions Hannah and I had written—and rewritten—the night before. We’d chosen the words carefully so that I appeared as objective as possible, even though I wasn’t. All I needed was to absorb the questions to the point where they felt natural so I could ask them without referring to my notes.
When I arrived, Josh and Christopher were in the midst of repositioning the lights, and the frown on Josh’s face was so stiff that I knew better than to stand around watching. None of the interview subjects had arrived yet, so I started pacing the lush green lawn. Then, seeing how that was making Josh more nervous, I headed toward the small orchard at the back of the property.
I slipped inside the orchard and stood under its cool canopy. A lone sparrow called out its song from one of the trees. Suddenly I was remembering, reliving the night with Eric here. The orchard came alive for me—running with him through the trees on that moonlit night. The feel of his skin against mine. The smell of his aftershave drifting in the wind. Midnight whispers beneath silvery leaves of an olive tree.