She broke his heart ten different ways.
He glanced away so as not to be caught staring and noticed a homeless man stumble up the sidewalk with the aid of a crutch. Just beyond the patio, the man sat, slumped against a parking meter. He was missing a leg below the knee. His battered cardboard sign read HOMELESS VETEREN WITH PTSD IM NOT ASHAMED ANYMORE BUT NEED HELP.
His head was lowered, his good leg kicked wide, the cardboard sign propped against his belly. His clothes were filthy, his face covered with grime.
The Veterans Affairs Medical Center abutted these streets, and affluent Westwood received plenty of spillover from the facility.
The man rustled the sign in his lap. Passersby lived up to their designation, neither slowing nor looking up from their phones. When the veteran scratched his cheek, his finger carved a white streak through the grime.
The waiter circled by and topped off Evan’s sparkling water. He followed Evan’s gaze. “Would you like me to have him removed, sir?”
Evan said, “No.”
The server gave one of those ridiculous half bows inherent to waiters and barons and started to withdraw. Evan grasped his forearm. “I’d like another branzino, please.”
The waiter’s pupils jiggled a touch nervously. “Very well, sir.”
Fifteen minutes later the dishes arrived. The waiter hesitated.
Evan gestured at the place setting across from him. “The extra one goes there.”
The waiter stiffened, his posture verging on displeased. He dispensed the dishes as directed and retreated inside.
Evan stared across the sidewalk at the veteran, and, feeling the heat of his gaze, the man looked up. He rumbled to his feet, picked at his beard, his eyes on the steaming meal sitting before the empty chair.
“What’s that?” he said.
Evan said, “Yours.”
The man stood a moment longer, the cardboard sign crumpled between his loose fists. Then he hobbled onto the patio and sat opposite Evan.
He ate hungrily but not impolitely. The other diners either took no notice or competently pretended not to. Evan and the man dined in perfect silence, focused on their meals.
Sometime later they finished.
Evan held up his credit card, one of many in one of his many different names, and the waiter materialized to retrieve it.
As Evan signed the check, the man gulped down his water and wiped his mouth on the napkin. “Good fish,” he said.
Evan looked across the table until at last the man looked up.
“Thank you for your service,” Evan said.
The vet nodded. With some effort he rose, leaning heavily on his crutch.
As Evan headed out, the man resumed his position against the parking meter, holding up his unread sign as patrons streamed past.
18
Coldly Modern
Evan’s penthouse condo, a seven-thousand-square-foot sprawl, was open design and coldly modern — slab counters, streamlined appliances and fixtures, workout pods sprouting like mushrooms from the poured-concrete floors. It was also a fortress protected by rigorous alarms and surveillance systems, bullet-resistant polycarbonate thermoplastic resin windows, and armored sunshades. A freestanding fireplace dotted the center of the great room, and a spiral staircase rose to a reading room that he rarely made use of.
A black suede couch and an area rug, miniaturized by the vast space, fulfilled the homey quotient.
Still disgruntled by the restaurant’s standard booze offerings, Evan breezed into the kitchen and tugged open the freezer drawer of the Sub-Zero. Lined neatly inside was a selection of exceptional vodkas. He plucked out his bottle of choice for the evening.
Fog Point was made with water harvested from San Francisco fog. To capture the Bay Area mist, mesh fog catchers designed to emulate water-capturing plants were positioned high on the hilltops around Outer Sunset and Sutro Tower. A full day’s harvest amounted to a mere few cups of the precious liquid.
Evan filled a cocktail shaker with purified ice, poured in a jigger, and shook it until his hands adhered to the metal. From the freezer’s middle shelf, he removed a stainless-steel martini glass, frosted from the chill, and poured in the mist’s newest iteration.
He sipped.
Hint of citrus. Maybe honeysuckle.
Lovely.
He circled the kitchen island to the so-called living wall, a vertical rise of germinating herbs and vegetables, and snapped off a sprig of basil, which he let float among the ice crystals.
Then he washed and dried the shaker and jigger and put them away. A few drops of water remained on the counter, so he wiped them and then wiped the rest of the counter for good measure, and then he wiped it again to get rid of the wipe marks.
He told himself, “Stop.”
Padding across the great room, drink in hand, he passed between racks of kettlebells, his shoulder brushing a heavy bag.
A single hall led to the master bedroom, where his Maglev bed literally floated above the floor, repelled from it by unreasonably powerful neodymium rare-earth magnets. A cable anchored to each corner moored the bed to keep it from flying up and smashing against the ceiling.
In the en suite bathroom, a nudge of his knuckle sent the wide glass shower door rolling aside on its barn-door track, and then he stepped inside and gripped the hot-water lever.
An embedded digital sensor read the print of his curled palm and allowed him to twist the lever through the point of resistance. A hidden door, disguised seamlessly in the wall tiles of the shower, swung inward, and he entered the concealed four hundred square feet he mentally referred to as the Vault.
Part command center, part armory, the Vault was where Evan did the majority of his operational planning. The underbelly of the public stairs to the roof crowded the space in the rear, where weapon lockers stood aligned. In the center of the room, an L-shaped sheet-metal desk supported a proliferation of computer hardware.
Right now there were no monitors in sight.
With a finger, he clicked the mouse and three of the four walls — a horseshoe wrapping the desk — shimmered to life. Over the past few weeks, he’d tiled those walls with OLED screens, made of glass embedded with mesh so fine it was undetectable to the bare eye. When not engaged, the screens shut off, transforming into invisible panes.
With everything up and running now, the Vault came alive with color and movement. One screen rotated through pirated feeds of Castle Heights’ surveillance cameras, showing angles of hallways, the lobby, and surrounding streets.
The other mounted screens hosted a profusion of evidence pertaining to Evan’s 1997 mission. Operational details, archived newspapers from the era and region, maps detailing every location he’d visited as a nineteen-year-old formulating his first hit. There were compiled records on the targeted foreign minister, his wife, the generals who had occupied the vehicle with him that day. The round man who’d supplied the steel shell casing with the fingerprint, the Estonian arms dealer, the heroin addict tucked in the shabby office of the abandoned textile factory who had overdosed in early 1998—each had a painstakingly assembled dossier as well.
Evan had resurrected every last thread of evidence as he conducted his own postmortem, but nothing he turned up showed the assassination to be anything but a standard kill.
Not one piece of intelligence had produced a worthwhile lead.
A flowchart of Jonathan Bennett’s career through 1997 dominated the right wall — every known post, every documented trip and meeting, every on-the-record colleague and contact.