Designer Crimes

by Lia Matera

  “Lovitz objected on political grounds?” I envisioned a buy-American purist or perhaps a green global warrior.

  “Possibly. But in terms of his job, Lovitz was told it was the only way to turn a profit—that part’s in his file. He was told it would be marginal anyway, more of a get-our-name-out-there kind of a thing, and that they were going to have to keep his salary low. That it would increase in future projects, once this one created demand.”

  “And that wasn’t true?”

  “They made a huge profit—money’s pouring in. He thinks they lied to get him to take less than he’s worth.”

  We were sailing over empty road now, strips of farmland between us and the sea, hills rising to the east like a Brueghel painting. “You guys got all this out of More’s computer?”

  “Nothin’ to it.”

  I’d have to learn how to protect my files from all the punky little Osmils out there.

  “And you think Lovitz is Designer Crimes’ next client?”

  “Computer types can’t stand to believe they’re powerless. That’s why they tell themselves information is power. That’s why they break into systems and poke around. The more information they access, whether they understand it or not, the more powerful they feel.”

  “What’s More going to do for him?”

  “We’re on our way to find out.”

  “Right now?”

  “This very blessed night. If me and Ozzy have it figured right.”

  This was a Thursday night in the tourist off-season. The Boardwalk would be closed down, dark, its rides creaking like dinosaur skeletons. A perfect time for sabotage and fireworks.

  “Funniest thing, Laura: A person can be cautious in a hundred ways, and then forget something very damn obvious. More phoned Lovitz on her car phone.”

  I waited for the punch line.

  “We picked up the conversation—piece of cake, no scrambler. She’s meeting Lovitz in Santa Cruz for a late dinner.”

  That was all? “And we’ll, what? Try to find a table near them at a restaurant and eavesdrop?”

  “There’s one other reason for the trip. You’ll see.”

  11

  “Presumably, you know where they’re meeting?” I sat with Sandy on a lap rug on the hood of his car in the middle of an empty parking lot facing the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk. It was a clear night, cold only because I’d sat motionless in a car for two hours. “But you’re choosing not to go there?”

  “Wouldn’t want to invade their privacy,” Sandy offered.

  “God, no.”

  We were in a neighborhood of shabbily-constructed motel apartments, rows of them facing each other across short strips of concrete. Here and there the monotony was broken by a T-shirt shop or a minigrocery with barred windows. In one, we’d bought rolls and cheese, their best Merlot (which wasn’t saying much) and some plastic glasses. We ate and drank, our own little moonlight tailgate party.

  “We could be equally respectful of their privacy from across the street,” I pointed out. “We could also watch the ocean.”

  “We’ve been watching it the whole drive down.”

  Spanish-language television chattered out of a motel apartment. Down the block, a plump child rode his Big-Wheels in the dark. A car full of bored-looking teenagers cruised past the silent skeleton of the roller coaster.

  “So much more interesting to be one with the parking lot,” I agreed.

  “Mmm,” was Sandy’s noncommittal reply.

  “A person could get chilly and bored.”

  “A person could wait patiently.”

  I drank more wine. “You’re lucky Aunt Diana is a bitch. You’re lucky my childhood was stifling. It made me willing to do pointless, inappropriate things at night when a young lady should be at home.”

  “Well.” His tone was measured. “I’ve never been with your Aunt Diana that I felt like I was lucky she was a bitch. But I see your point.”

  He folded one leg to his chest, leaving the other dangling from the hood. He’d wolfed a few rolls and cheese, and was working on the wine more slowly than it deserved.

  “So what would you do if your boss lied to you just to keep your pay low?”

  “That’s the name of the game, Sandy. That’s Labor History 101.”

  “But say you have a unique skill. And the boss made a big point of using cheap foreign labor—screwed over a lot of other workers, too.”

  I tried not to think about Steve Sayres, about the money and prestige I’d earned him.

  “Really, Laura, how smart are you? How would you fix him?”

  “I’m not trained to be ‘smart,’ the way you mean it. Clever, devious, yes, but within legal parameters.” Which was bitterly annoying at times. “The Steve Sayreses of the world don’t want another Reign of Terror.”

  “But without the parameters, throw all that away. What would you do?” He craned his neck, staring up at the three-quarter moon. “Say it’s just you and Lady Justice. How would you put things right?”

  I pulled my legs up, hugging them. It was quiet in the neighborhood now, no more kids on night tricycles, no more blaring television, no cars cruising the barren amusement park.

  I was demoralized to find I couldn’t think of anything. Hadn’t I just accused Sayres of lack of imagination?

  “I have to give Maryanne More credit, Sandy. If she really comes up with ways to get revenge for her clients … Yesterday you said I was thinking like a lawyer. I guess that’s true. If my employers crewed me over, wrecked my career, and I couldn’t take them to court, I don’t know what I’d do. Maybe murder.”

  “The direct approach.”

  The air smelled of sea salt and enchiladas. The surf pounded just loud enough to be heard beyond the amusement park and the wide beach I’d wanted to picnic on.

  “Show time.” Sandy sat up.

  “Where?” My eyes were used to the semidarkness of street lamps and moon, but I didn’t see anything I hadn’t been looking at for the last thirty minutes.”

  “Down there.”

  A heavy man and a slender woman approached the front building of the Boardwalk complex, a vaguely art deco monstrosity with a garish sign reading “Coconut Grove.” They were on foot, probably coming from a wharf of restaurants and souvenir shops perpendicular to the Boardwalk buildings. We were parked across the street almost two blocks away, but they were closing the distance fast.

  Sandy snatched the bits of our tailgate picnic and slid off the hood. “Let’s get in.”

  I grabbed the lap rug, glad to comply. It hadn’t been the most comfortable perch.

  “They were eating at a place on the wharf, that one.” He pointed to a row of lighted windows facing the Boardwalk. “It has a view of the beach.”

  Which explained why we’d picnicked in the parking lot. There was too much moonlight to sit within the restaurant’s view.

  “Lovitz told her on the car phone to meet him there. I figured, this close to the Boardwalk, they must be planning something.”

  They were standing in a well-lighted area in front of the Coconut Grove. Lovitz, a bear of a person in a dark sweater and watchman’s cap, gesticulated passionately while More, in slacks and sport coat, stood nodding.

  “They’re not what you’d call skulking,” I observed.

  “No. If they’re looking to break in, they’re being pretty conspicuous.”

  They continued past the Coconut Grove to a building labeled FUN CENTER. A gap between the buildings showed unlighted rides, their outlines traced in moonlight.

  “If I had to guess, I’d say the new arcade’s on the beach side of the old one. To keep the skateboard crowd localized.”

  “So this is the building they’d be breaking into if they wanted to mess with the equipment.”

  Sandy sighed. “He could mess with it much easier
in the daytime. He has every right to be in there, nice and legit, during business hours. No point waiting till night and breaking in with your lawyer.”

  “Even I could have thought of a better plan,” I agreed.

  “It lacks the subtlety of false rumors on the Internet,” Sandy conceded. “And it ain’t as direct as murder. But who knows?”

  We watched as the two of them stood in front of the arcade, talking, occasionally checking their watches.

  I glanced at Sandy’s dashboard clock. “It’s nine-thirty. What are they waiting for?”

  A moment later, a vehicle resembling a meter maid’s one-seater zoomed down the sidewalk toward them.

  “Where did that come from?”

  “Probably a passel of them parked on the other side of the entrance. This one came out of there.” He pointed to a dark gap between the arcade and the next building. “Security,” he explained. “Boardwalk security.”

  A man in a light uniform jumped out of the one-person vehicle. He talked to Lovitz for a minute, shining his flashlight on a piece of paper Lovitz displayed.

  A few minutes later, the guard unlocked the arcade door, holding it open for them. As they filed in, we glimpsed a bright room of garish arcade games. The guard trotted in behind them, closing the door.

  “Very damn interesting,” Sandy commented.

  “Very damn up-and-up, I’d say. He produced some kind of pass and went in with his lawyer. This is not the stuff of caper movies.”

  “But why go in at night—off-season, too? Come on.” Sandy hopped out of the car.

  I followed. The wine and bread were making me tired. I longed for a warm room and a soft bed. I’d had a long day, a long week. And I felt guilty about not checking in with Brad Rommel, worried something might have developed in my absence.

  I told myself there was no urgency—Rommel was out on bail, not sweating it in a jail cell. But he wasn’t just a client. I’d known him a long time. I wanted his ordeal to end.

  Sandy and I cut a diagonal across the parking lot and the street, avoiding the arcade. We hurried to the far end of the Boardwalk, to the last of its barred entrances. Behind iron gates we saw kiddy rides, concessions, carnival games. Rows of lamps caught wisps of sea mist tumbling and intertwining like otters. The glare reflected off hundreds of unlit bulbs filigreeing every ride and stand. But the most gorgeous attraction was the beach itself, absorbing the soft light of moon and wharf and boardwalk, and the crashing surf, glowing black-light white.

  “You up for some climbing, Laura?”

  The iron gate was less than ten feet tall. “Must we?”

  “I was kidding. No need for you to tag along.” He was already wiping tow of the bars, making them less slick as far as he could reach. “Security must be watching the beach. That’s the usual way to get in here at night, I’m sure.”

  “What if more security people come by?”

  “Wine on my breath. I’ve got it covered.”

  The old drunk tourist routine. Great. It had to work for somebody someday.

  He hoisted himself up, then, with a grunt, clambered over the top. He dropped with a thud.

  “You okay?” I whispered.

  “Oh, man,” was his reply. He sat on the ground for a minute. “Have you called me a fool lately?”

  “Not without contradiction. And it wouldn’t be the same by invitation.”

  He stood, cast me a wry look. “No, don’t lavish all that concern on me. I’m okay.” He didn’t sound it. “Wait here. If you get too close, More will make you when she comes out.”

  “And if she spots you?”

  “I won’t let her see me up close. I’ll stay out the light.” He limped off.

  I was borderline amused, for a while, peering through the gate at the rides. Without casino light bulbs and calliope music, without the smell of caramel and corn dogs, without the sound of kids running and roller coaster shrieks, it was not less interesting, only different. Motionless and shrouded in mist, it was like a shrine to the fifties, a place in some Ray Bradbury story, not real, but asleep with quaint magic, dreaming of old America.

  The romance of it carried me through ten or fifteen minutes. Then I tried to outwit my impatience. I walked back to where a snaking ride curved on steel rafters over the concrete, a wide sweep of it arcing out beyond the fence. It dripped salt water on me. I walked a little farther. A railway trestle spanned a shallow stream eddying into the ocean.

  I returned to the gate.

  I waited some more.

  I froze into a hunch-shouldered coma of boredom. I remembered other times Sandy had kept me waiting, other times he’d used his easy manner to soothe me into stupid situations. I had plenty of kindling to feed my displeasure. Instead the memories reignited some old feelings. We’d been a happy couple once, and friends, too. I couldn’t say that about my other relationships.

  I was considering going back to the car when I heard shouting on the other side of the gate, somewhere inside the Boardwalk. A man cried, “Hey! Damn it! Stop!” He was too far away to be referring to me. He continued, “You! Stop!”

  It could only mean Sandy had been spotted skulking around.

  I heard men running. Within seconds a meter-maid car came barreling out of nowhere toward me.

  I stood motionless in its headlights. Two men in light uniforms ran behind it. I didn’t know if they were even armed, but I found myself fearing they’d shoot. I waited for the sound I’d heard in Jocelyn Kinsley’s office. My heart jumped into my throat, and my legs turned to stone. Running would mean turning my back. Not seeing the gun, not seeing it coming.

  As the cart stopped, the two pedestrians close behind, I reminded myself that it’s no crime to stand outside an amusement park looking in. They had no right to ask for an explanation.

  A man leaped out of the cart, saying, “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking in.” Anger leaked into my voice, giving it some steel. “What’s the problem?”

  “You waiting for someone?”

  “Why are you hassling me? I’m just walking.”

  But their reason became apparent. Sounds of a scuffle came through the gate, grunts and oomphs as of men playing football. Then I heard the squawk of a walkie-talkie, and over it, loud silly tittering.

  “Sorry fellas.” More tittering. “Ha ha ha, what a … used to do this when I was a kid. Sneak in at night.” Sandy, playing drunk.

  I heard the click of high heels, then two men’s voices. Maryanne More and Lovitz with their guard, approaching quickly.

  Damn it.

  Sandy might have gotten away with his drunk nostalgia act if More hadn’t come out of the arcade. But encountering him here, she’d leap to the obvious truth: that we’d followed her to spy on her.

  I could see Sandy now. The security guards had him pinned between them. They were scooting him on rubbery legs toward the entrance and their fellow guards. Sandy was looking over his shoulder, his expression in that instant all too sober. He looked at me and started kicking and wrestling, tossing out slurred exclamations. Clearly, he was trying to move the guards back. He was trying to hustle them out of my sight. He was trying to keep More away from where I stood.

  I had only a few seconds to ponder. Sandy had resigned himself to More seeing him, but he didn’t want her to see me. Because he’d tell her something—something he saw as a better story—if she didn’t know I was with him?

  He’d play the headstrong lover, perhaps, acting out of manly protectiveness toward me. Following her because he couldn’t bear the purgatory of doing nothing after my narrow escape. There were enough action-before-thought males out there that she might just chalk it up to macho excess.

  Whereas my presence here meant we had a rational suspicion of particular wrongdoing. It meant we’d followed her for what we considered a good reason, not just because a guy�
��s gotta do something.

  I turned tail and ran. I ran under the loops of the dripping ride that overhung the fence, and then onto a railway trestle. There was a wooden footpath beside the tracks. There was no way a cart could follow.

  The wood sounded like empty barrels beneath my feet. I heard footsteps join mine. At the end of the trestle, a hill rose steeply toward a city street with a train tunnel beneath it. I continued along the tracks to the pitch darkness of the underpass.

  The smell hit me first—dank, uriney, oily. I concentrated on getting through, pushing away fears of lurking men with guns. (I had to shake free of what happened in Kinsley’s office.) My feet squelched over what I hoped was not fetid excrement or decomposing animal.

  Moments after reaching the other side, I found myself beside a street streaming with cars.

  I hoped I’d interpreted Sandy’s behavior correctly because, damn, running in the dark in city shoes (probably spattered beyond cleaning now) was not my idea of fun.

  I hoped I’d interpreted Sandy’s behavior correctly because, damn, running in the dark in city shoes (probably spattered beyond cleaning) was not my idea of fun.

  I finally slowed down and looked over my shoulder. My pursuer had vanished. He’d probably stopped chasing me when I reached the underpass. I hadn’t been doing anything wrong, after all. He had no right or reason to detain me, so why catch me?

  I’d gotten spooked, that’s all. Lately, it didn’t take much.

  I stated back toward the Boardwalk, feeling a little foolish.

  When More saw Sandy, she was bound to suspect that the woman waiting at the gate, the woman who’d taken all the trouble to flee from Boardwalk security, was me.

  Who else could it be?

  No matter how well Sandy presented it, if More was indeed masterminding Designer Crimes, she would be smart enough to see through his pretexts.

  I walked back to his car, relieved to find the doors unlocked.

  I could hear the loud bass of a cruising car’s radio. I slid quickly into the passenger seat, shoving picnic detritus into the back.