From: [email protected]
To: Brandon, Rebecca
Subject: Re: Applying to Be a Bounty Hunter
* * *
Dear Ms. Brandon,
Thank you for your email. If you would like to join the International Association of Fugitive Recovery Operatives, please fill out the attached form and return it, together with the $95 membership fee. You will receive an ID card, together with other benefits outlined on our website.
However, in answer to your query, we do not issue “Bounty Hunter” badges or other “bounty hunter accessories.”
We do provide an Apprentice Program; however, I regret we do not offer specific workshops on “How to Track Down a Missing Dad.” Nor indeed “How to Stay Friends with Your Fellow Bounty Hunters.”
Good luck with your endeavors.
Yours kindly,
Wyatt Underwood
Membership Manager
International Association of Fugitive Recovery Operatives
FOUR
As we travel toward Corey’s Las Vegas address, the mood in the RV is subdued. Mum and Janice are silent. Suze and Alicia are sitting opposite me, still talking away in low voices. And I’m playing stickers with Minnie and thinking about Bryce.
His full name is Bryce Perry and he was—is—the “personal-growth leader” at Golden Peace. I came across him a lot when I was attending classes there, and what I’m pondering is: Why has Tarquin fallen under his spell? Why has Dad asked him along on the mission? Why do the pair of them trust him? And I think I’ve hit on the answer: Bryce is really good-looking.
Which is not about being gay or anything. There’s just something compelling about very beautiful people. Especially strong-jawed men with stubble and intense eyes. You fall under their spell and believe anything they say. Like, if I met Will Smith tomorrow and he told me he was on the run from corrupt government officials and I must help him, no questions asked, I’d totally believe it.
Well, Bryce is the same. He has those captivating eyes that make you go weak-kneed. When he talks, it’s mesmerizing. You start thinking, Bryce, you’re so right! About everything! Even if he’s only telling you the times of yoga classes.
Suze definitely felt the Bryce magic; I know she did. Everyone did. And the thing with Tarquin is that just before he met Bryce, he’d been in a fairly bad place. He’d fallen out with his family and had an embarrassing business failure, and he was generally feeling pretty down—when up pops Bryce, with his beach-volleyball sessions and his friendly chats and his charismatic personality. So it’s no wonder that Tarkie fell under Bryce’s spell.
It’s also no wonder that Bryce is after his money. When you’re as rich as Tarkie, everyone’s after your money. Poor old Tarkie. He has all this cash and stately homes and stuff, but I don’t think it makes him happy, really—
“OK, we’re about twenty minutes away.” Luke interrupts my thoughts and I jump. In fact, we all jump.
“Twenty minutes?”
“Already?”
“But we’re not in Las Vegas yet!”
“It’s this side of Las Vegas,” says Luke, squinting at the satnav. “Looks like a residential area. Lots of golf clubs.”
“Golf!” exclaims Janice in excitement. “Maybe Graham and his friend are playing golf! Could that be it, Jane?”
“Well, he does like his golf,” says Mum, sounding uncertain. “Suzie, Tarquin plays golf, doesn’t he?”
“A bit,” says Suze, sounding equally uncertain.
“That’s it, then.” Janice claps her hands. “It’s golf!”
Golf?
We’re all looking at one another, flummoxed. Is Dad on a golfing trip? Will we have rushed into the desert like mad things just to find him on the eighteenth green, wearing argyle socks and saying, Good shot, Tarquin?
“Does Bryce play golf?” Suze turns to Alicia.
“I have no idea,” says Alicia. “Seems unlikely. But I’d say there’s no point speculating till we get there.”
This is such a sensible, dampening-down thing to say, it ruins the temporary excitement. So we all sit in silence until Luke turns into a wide road lined with mansions and says, “This is Eagles Landing Lane.”
We all stare out of the car, gobsmacked. I thought Las Vegas was all bright lights and hotels and casinos. I sort of imagined that everyone just lived in the hotels all the time. But of course there are houses too. And these aren’t just houses, they’re palaces. The plots of land are huge and they all have towering palm trees or vast gates or something, as if to announce: I live here and I’m a pretty big deal.
We arrive at number 235 and gaze at it in silence. It’s the hugest of the lot: gray with four castellated towers, like a proper princess’s castle. It looks like it should have Rapunzel leaning out of a window.
“What does Corey do again?” says Luke.
“He owns a science company,” I say. “He has all these patents registered. And he owns stacks of property too. He does lots of things.”
“What kind of patents?”
“I don’t know!” I say. “They’re all in scientific gobbledygook.”
I scroll through my Google search and read out some of the entries. “Corey Andrews, honored by the Institute of Electrical Engineers…Corey Andrews stepped down as chairman of Firelight Innovations, Inc….Corey Andrews’s growing property empire—Oh. Wait. This is from the Las Vegas Herald, a few years ago: Corey Andrews celebrates his fiftieth birthday at the Mandarin Oriental with friends and associates.” I look up from my phone in consternation. “His fiftieth? I thought he was the same age as Dad.”
“Shit.” Luke turns the engine off. “Are we in the wrong place? Is this the wrong Corey?”
“Well, I don’t know,” I say, confused. “Because he’s definitely a Corey Andrews who puts eagles in his pictures.”
“Could there be more than one who does the same thing?” suggests Suze.
There’s silence as we all consider this.
“Only one way to find out,” says Luke at last. He jumps down and we watch him speaking into the intercom. A moment later he’s back in the RV and the gates are swinging open.
“What did they say?” demands Janice eagerly.
“They thought we were here for a party,” says Luke. “I didn’t disabuse them.”
As we travel up the drive, a man in a gray linen outfit directs us to park the RV next to a building that looks like an aircraft hangar. This place is seriously huge, with massive trees and great potted plants everywhere. The netting of a tennis court is visible from where we’ve parked, and jazz from hidden speakers is filling the air. The other cars are all shiny convertibles, most with customized number plates. One says DOLLAR 34, another is KRYSTLE, and a third is a stretch limo spray-painted with a tiger print.
“Tiger car!” exclaims Minnie, looking transfixed with joy. “Tiger car, Mummy!”
“It’s beautiful, darling,” I say, trying not to giggle. “So, where are we going to go now?” I turn to the others. “You realize we’re totally gate-crashing?”
“I’ve never been anywhere like this in my life,” says Suze, wide-eyed.
“Suze, you own a castle in Scotland,” I point out.
“Yes, but not like this,” she counters. “This is like a Disney castle! Look, there’s a helicopter pad on the roof!”
The man in the gray linen outfit approaches, eyeing us up and down dubiously.
“Are you here for Peyton’s party?” he inquires. “May I take your names?”
I must admit, we don’t look like party guests. We don’t even have a present for Peyton, whoever Peyton is.
“We won’t be on the list,” says Luke smoothly. “But we’d like to see Corey Andrews. It’s a matter of some urgency.”
“It’s a matter of life and death,” chimes in Mum wildly.
“We’ve come all the way from Oxshott,” Janice adds. “Oxshott in England.”
“We want to find my dad,” I explain.
“And
my husband,” says Suze, pushing her way to the front of the group. “He’s missing, and we think maybe Corey knows something about it.”
The linen-suit man is looking bewildered.
“I’m afraid Mr. Andrews is tied up right now,” he says, backing away from Suze. “If you can give me your details, I’ll pass them on—”
“But we need to see him now!” says Mum passionately.
“We’ll be quick,” says Luke.
“Want to ride tiger car!” Minnie puts in emphatically.
“We won’t be any trouble,” adds Mum eagerly. “If you could just—”
“Please give Mr. Andrews this.” A low voice comes from behind us, and we all turn to see Alicia coming forward, holding out a Golden Peace card with its distinctive shiny insignia and some words scribbled on it.
The man takes it, reads it in silence, and his expression changes.
“Well,” he says. “I’ll let Mr. Andrews know you’re here.”
He retreats and we all face Alicia, who’s looking smug yet humble in that annoying way she has.
“What did you write?” I demand.
“Just a few words that I thought might help,” she says simply.
I can hear Mum and Janice agreeing in loud whispers that the name “Alicia Merrelle” is like royalty in the States and think how many celebrities she must have met at Golden Peace, not that she’d ever gossip, because she’s such a nice discreet girl.
A nice discreet girl? I have explained to Mum about Alicia Bitch Long-legs over and over—
Anyway. Whatever.
—
It’s only a few moments later that our friend in the linen suit appears again and ushers us silently toward the house—all except Luke, who stayed in the RV to talk to Gary. (There’s some big piece of gossip from the conference dinner, involving a junior government minister.) The house has a massive studded front door, and just for a moment I think a drawbridge is going to come down. But instead we skirt round the house/castle/mansion altogether and file between some immaculate hedges like in the maze at Hampton Court, until we come out onto a great big lawn with a gigantic bouncy castle and a table covered in food and five zillion kids running about and a banner reading HAPPY 5TH BIRTHDAY, PEYTON!
Ah. So that’s who Peyton is. Actually, you can’t tell who she is, because every single little girl is wearing a shiny princess frock. But it’s obvious who Corey is, from the way the guy in the linen suit approaches him deferentially and starts gesturing at us.
He’s quite amazing-looking, Corey. He’s very buff and tanned, with thick black hair and what look like tweezered eyebrows. He looks way younger than Dad. Next to him is a woman who I guess is Mrs. Corey, and when I look at her, the only word that comes to mind is “frosted.” She has shiny blond hair, a sparkly top, embossed jeans, diamanté sandals, zillions of rings and bracelets, and a jeweled clip in her hair. She basically looks like someone took the glitter pot and emptied it over her. She also has big tanned breasts and a very low-cut top. I mean, very low-cut. For a children’s birthday party.
At last Corey heads toward us and we all glance at one another. We haven’t decided who’s going to speak or what we’re going to say or anything. But, as usual, Alicia gets in first.
“Mr. Andrews,” she says. “I am Alicia Merrelle.”
“Mrs. Merrelle.” Corey takes her hand. “Honored to have you visit. How can I help?”
Close up, he doesn’t look quite as young. In fact, he’s got that over-tight, too-much-plastic-surgery look. And now I’m really confused. Is this Dad’s Corey or not? I’m opening my mouth to ask him, when Mrs. Corey appears by his side. If you put her in a cotton frock and wiped off all the shiny eye shadow, she’d probably look about twenty-three. Maybe she is twenty-three.
“Honey?” she says questioningly to Corey. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know.” He gives a little laugh. “What is going on? This is Alicia Merrelle,” he adds to his wife. “Owns Golden Peace. My wife, Cyndi.”
Cyndi gasps and goggles at Alicia. “You own Golden Peace? That place is inspirational! I have your DVD, my friend did the retreat…how can we help?”
“We’re looking for my father,” I plunge in. “He’s called Graham Bloomwood, and we think you knew him years ago. Unless…” I add uncertainly to Corey, “there’s another Corey Andrews who puts eagles in his paintings?”
Cyndi laughs. “Only one Corey Andrews, isn’t there, babe?”
“Great!” I say, encouraged. “So, you went on a trip with my dad in 1972. A road trip. There were four of you.”
Something tells me I’ve said the wrong thing. Corey’s face barely moves, but I can see it in his eyes. A flicker of hostility.
“In 1972?” Cyndi wrinkles her brow. “Corey would have been too young for a road trip back then! How old were you then, honey?”
“I can’t help you, I’m afraid,” says Corey tightly. “If you’ll excuse us.”
As he turns away, I can see tiny scars behind his ears. Oh, for God’s sake. This is about his personal vanity. That’s why he’s denying he knows Dad. Cyndi has hurried to help a fallen child, but before Corey can disappear too, Mum grabs his arm.
“My husband’s missing!” says Mum dramatically. “You’re our only hope!”
“Look, I’m sorry, but you must be the same Corey,” I say firmly. “I know you are. Has my dad come here? Have you heard anything from him?”
“This conversation is over.” He glares at me.
“Are you in touch with Brent or Raymond?” I persist. “Did you know that Brent’s been living in a trailer? My dad says he’s got to ‘put something right.’ Do you know what that is?”
“Please leave my property,” says Corey flatly. “It’s my daughter’s birthday party. I’m sorry I can’t help you.”
“Can you give us Raymond’s surname, at least?”
“Raymond Earle?” says Cyndi brightly, rejoining the group. “That’s the only Raymond I ever heard Corey talk about.”
I glance at Corey, and he looks livid.
“Cyndi, don’t talk to these people,” he snaps. “They’re just leaving. Go back to the party.”
“Cyndi, where does Raymond live?” I quickly ask. “Isn’t it Albuquerque? Or San Diego? Or is it…Milwaukee?”
I’m just plucking places from the air, hoping it’ll prod her into answering, and it works.
“Well, no, he’s down near Tucson, right?” She glances uncertainly at Corey. “Only he’s a bit nuts, isn’t he, babe? Total recluse? I mean, I overheard you talking….” She quails at Corey’s look and falls silent.
“So you are in touch with him!” I feel a surge of frustration. We’re so on the right track. But if this stupid plastic-faced idiot won’t help us, we’ll be stuck again. “Corey, what happened in 1972? Why’s my dad gone on this mission? What happened?”
“Please get off my property,” says Corey, wheeling round. “I’m calling my security team. This is a private birthday party.”
“My name is Rebecca!” I shout after him. “Does that mean anything to you?”
“Oh!” exclaims Cyndi. “Like your oldest, hon!”
Corey turns back and I can see him staring at me, the weirdest look on his face. No one else speaks. In fact, I think everyone’s holding their breath. He has a daughter called Rebecca too. What is going on?
Then he wheels round again and strides back toward the party.
“Well, great to meet you guys!” says Cyndi uncertainly. “Pick up a party bag for your little one as you leave.”
“Oh, we couldn’t do that!” I say at once. “They’re for your guests.”
“But we have way too many. Please, go ahead.” She hurries after Corey, stumbling a little on her heels. I can hear her saying in puzzled tones, “Babe, what’s up?”
A few moments later, the guy in the linen suit rounds the corner of the house, accompanied by two guys who are not in linen suits. They’re in jeans, and they have crew cuts and those e
xpressionless faces which say Only doing my job as they beat you to a pulp.
You know. I’m assuming.
“Um, let’s go,” I say nervously.
“Goodness,” gulps Janice. “Those men look rather threatening.”
“Big bullies!” says Mum indignantly, and I have a sudden dreadful image of her squaring up to them with her Oxshott Senior Ladies’ Self-Defense Group moves.
“Mum, we need to go,” I say, before she can get any bright ideas.
“I think we should leave,” agrees Alicia. “We’ve learned all we can for now.”
“Thanks!” I call to the crew-cut guys. “We’re on our way out. Super party, we’re just getting our party bag….”
As I steer Minnie to a table covered in massive loot bags, Cyndi reappears, holding a cocktail. She sees us approaching the table and hurries over.
“I’m so sorry about that,” Cyndi says breathlessly. “My husband can be a grouch with people he doesn’t know. I say to him, ‘Honey! Lighten up!’ ” She picks up a bag tied with purple ribbons and peeks inside. “Oh, now, this one has a ballerina doll in it.” She holds it out to Minnie. “You like ballerinas, honey?”
“Party bag!” yells Minnie ecstatically. “Thank-you-for-da-lovely-party,” she adds with care. “Thank-you-for-da-lovely-parteee.”
“You’re a darling.” Cyndi beams at her. “That accent!”
“It’s an amazing party,” I say politely.
“I have a very generous husband,” says Cyndi earnestly. “We’re very lucky. But you know, we appreciate it. We don’t take it for granted.” She nods at the table. “Every one of these loot bags has a counterpart going to an underprivileged kid.”
“Wow.” I blink at her. “That’s a great idea.”
“It’s the way I like to do things. I wasn’t born to this.” She sweeps an arm around, gesturing at the castle. “We can always remember those less fortunate than ourselves. And that’s what I want to teach Peyton.”
“Good for you.” I feel a tweak of admiration. I reckon there’s more to Cyndi than meets the eye.
Shopaholic to the Rescue Page 4