He put away his phone and made his way back to the party. The people at this party were alien to Scott Schelling. The presidents of all the other subsidiaries were married, and they brought their wives—all blond and tall and twenty to thirty years younger than their husbands, but all showing face-lifts and teeth with the whiteness of a porcelain sink. He was never sure what to make of these women because there was no way to read their expressions.
Their husbands were slightly easier for him, because he could recognize the hostility and suspicion when he talked to them. As he stepped inside from the desert garden, he saw that Taylor Gaines had been watching him. Gaines was the head of the finance subsidiary of the parent company, the one that used the profits from each of the divisions to make loans. Gaines said, “Hello, Scott. Got to keep on top of the trends even while you’re here, don’t you?”
“That’s right, Taylor. If you’re not ahead, you’re behind.”
Scott hurried down the hallway and noticed he was moving past framed antique drawings and maps from the Spanish era. His girls had done their job beautifully when they had bought an old map as a present for Jill Klein. As he had the thought, he remembered that they had not needed to strain much to accomplish it. Ray Klein had probably told them what to buy.
Everything that happened seemed to be controlled by Ray Klein. Ray Klein wanted the girls to please Scott Schelling with their efficiency so Scott would keep them on his staff. That way they could keep feeding Ray Klein information. Klein wanted Scott to feel good about his relationship with him, to feel that he had done well and Klein appreciated and liked him. Klein wanted his wife, Jill, to have a nice addition to her collection so she could feel involved and admired, and not have as much brain space to observe her husband’s relations with Martha Rodall, vice president of the Public Relations Division. All this was what Ray Klein was famous for: managing his people.
Scott slipped past white-shirted waiters serving tiny blue-corn tamales, ahi tuna on small beds of rice, and cocktails, and into the center of the party, just close enough to Ray Klein to be sure that Klein included him in any mental roll-call he was taking, but not close enough to be an obstruction or a distraction. Scott made sure he had been seen, and then smiled and shook hands with Sam Hardesty, the head of the Aerospace Electronics Division. “Hi, Sam. Scott Schelling, Crosswinds Records. How are you tonight?”
“Fine. Yourself?” Hardesty was nearly seventy with white hair and the build of the retired general he was.
“Great,” said Schelling. “It’s such a beautiful night, and I find getting out of Los Angeles this time of year a treat. Hell, just getting out of the office is a treat. How are your numbers going to come in this quarter?”
Hardesty flinched at the directness of the question. “I’m afraid that’s not a number I can give out just yet.”
“Oh? Classified?”
“No. But it’s inside information. You work in a different company, even though we own it. It’s against SEC rules for me to tell you.”
“Well, then, good luck with it,” Scott said. He moved deeper into the room toward the next set of executives, a pair of computer-hardware nerds from Syn-Final Microsystems, when he felt something touch his arm. As he began to turn he saw the hand. On one of the fingers was a bean-sized emerald with diamonds around it. He lifted his eyes to see Jill Klein’s face close to his.
“Scotty,” she said, her voice low and conspiratorial. “I just had to take you aside and tell you how much I love the map.” From this close, he could see that her face showed signs of surgical procedures. The skin above the cheekbones had been tightened from the sides so her oversized eyes looked permanently startled. She leaned close and kissed his cheek with pillowy lips. “It’s really gorgeous.” She smiled. “Sometimes a thank-you note just isn’t enough.”
“I should thank you. I’d rather have a kiss than a note any day.”
“Would you like to see where I’ve hung it?”
“Sure.”
She walked him out to the fringes of the party, along a wide hallway toward the back of the house. He could hear the sounds of caterers working in a restaurant-size kitchen beyond the big doors at the end of the hall. As he walked, he tried to remember the description that Kimberly and Tiffany had recited to him so he would recognize it when he saw it. He remembered something about California being an island. The kitchen sounds made him sure they were near the dining room. Maybe she had hung it there, where the other guests would have to look at it and envy his taste and thoughtfulness.
But she turned in the other direction, up a narrow staircase that led to the second floor. She took a few steps and opened a door. “This is my personal suite.” There was a large sitting room decorated with kachina dolls and Navajo rugs, furnished with couches and a heavy antique desk of dark wood. Above it he could see several old documents framed, but not a map.
“This is really a beautiful room,” he said.
“Oh, yes. It’s quiet and private.” She opened a door beyond the desk, and led him into a bedroom. There was a maid in the room, busy arranging something in the drawers of a dresser. “Here it is.” She pointed to the inner wall of the room. The map was larger than Schelling had imagined, a folio-sized sheet in a thin black frame hung on the uneven faux-adobe surface.
“It looks very authentic there,” he said. He was relieved that he didn’t have to pick it out of a whole row of nearly identical maps.
Jill Klein turned to the maid. “Consuelo, make sure we’re not disturbed.”
Consuelo scuttled out of the room. He heard the sound of a lock clicking, then, a few seconds later, another.
She said, “When I’m thanking someone, I think the old ways are best, don’t you?” She put her arms around his neck and kissed him on the lips.
Schelling was shocked, alarmed. He had no response ready. “I don’t think this is smart,” he said. “Your husband is—”
“Downstairs at the party with his mistress.” She took his hands and put them around her waist. “Just be quick, so nobody gets embarrassed.”
The telephone in Scott’s coat began to vibrate again. In the silence it gave an audible buzz, and he jumped as though they had been caught.
“Turn that thing off.”
He dug the phone out and flipped it open. “Yes?”
It was Tiffany’s voice. “Scotty, I’m sorry to call again, but I’m in my car, and the news is saying that the two men you were asking about have been shot to death.”
“Are you sure?”
“The description is the same. And it’s the parking lot behind Harlan’s, where I told them to meet Paul.”
“All right. Thanks.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Go home. Do nothing. Say nothing. I’ll see you Monday morning.” He disconnected.
Jill Klein had turned away from him, and now she was walking toward the door. He said, “Jill. Please wait.”
She stopped and looked over her shoulder as she reached for the doorknob. “Jill? To you I’m Mrs. Klein. I’ll always be Mrs. Klein.” She opened the door. He could see that in the office Consuelo had been sitting on the couch in near-darkness, probably so nobody would see light under the door. She stood up quickly, turned on the light, and unbolted the door so Jill Klein did not have to break her stride on the way out.
Schelling walked through the sitting room past Consuelo, but she did not meet his gaze. As far as he could tell, her eyes had never moved to his face. She was obviously paid never to see or hear.