She drove to a 7-Eleven, stocked up on more snacks, and sat in the parking lot reviewing the mental ledger she’d already gone over twice after deciding to take the trip.
If Mr. Beef was still looking for her — quite likely — being away from her home and her office would make her vulnerable to break-ins.
On the other hand, there was nothing in either location that could benefit the enemy and stuff was replaceable.
She wasn’t.
Then there was the matter of payoff: Merely checking out a neighborhood where a defunct business once sat could very well prove futile. Worse, she’d come up empty on Alamo Adjustments and if the enemy lived nearby, risk giving herself away.
The enemy; time to put a face on her quarry.
She imagined him: a tall, glib, probably still attractive man of thirty-seven or thirty-eight. A charmer with secrets worth killing for and, if he wasn’t as smart as he thought he was, possibly a criminal record.
If he was smart, he’d coasted for over two decades, maybe living a respectable life but definitely wreaking havoc on the sly.
If he’d attained public respectability, his secrets were well worth killing for.
Grace had passed through Santa Barbara, was nearing Solvang, still with no word from Wayne. He’d said to give him two or three days but she figured that was just a hedge and her faith in his follow-through diminished with each freeway exit. Because let’s face it, it was a simple matter of calling the right person. Either he could or he couldn’t, would or wouldn’t.
She turned up the music, checked the tripometer. Two hundred ninety miles to go at sixty-five per. Her foot itched to exert more force on the gas but she’d already spotted three highway patrol cars. Still, she was feeling energized, chipper, maybe she would pull off a one-day trek. Find an appropriately bland business hotel in the good part of Oakland that bordered Berkeley, spend a quiet night, be up early to hunt.
As she neared Lompoc, Wayne called.
Grace said, “You found something.”
“Of a fashion.”
“I’m listening.”
“Hey,” he said, suddenly jocular. “ ’S great to hear from my favorite niece... meetings all day? Tsk, I sympathize, dear... sure, that would be great, let me write it down... the Red Heifer... Santa Monica... six-ish work for you?”
Surprised by someone entering his office? Fast on the uptake; Grace was glad she had him on her side.
The ride back was two and a half hours, minimum, longer if rush-hour traffic got ugly. But even with that, plenty of squeeze room.
She said, “See you soon, Uncle Wayne.”
He hung up without laughing.
The restaurant was old-schooclass="underline" commodious vaulted dining room, green-flocked wallpaper, dim lighting, olive leather booths, noise-damping faux-Persian carpeting. The art was a mix of Flemish still-life prints, goofy cartoons about wine, and a huge butcher’s chart to the left of the bar that segmented a pitifully oblivious steer into steaks, chops, and roasts.
Grace arrived ten minutes early but Wayne was already there, half his rotund form visible, the rest hidden by the shadows of a remote corner booth. Despite brisk dinner business, the banquette next to his was unoccupied. A martini in which three toothpicked olives floated looked untouched. He nibbled on bread, barely acknowledged Grace as she slid in beside him.
Today he was dressed to impress, in a soft-shouldered tan suit, a pale-orange shirt, and the same aggressive blue tie as in his official headshot. He remained stoic but took Grace’s hand and gave it a brief squeeze.
“Uncle,” she said. “Thanks for taking the time.”
He smiled weakly. “Family is family.”
A white-jacketed waiter came over. “Still no food, Mr. Knutsen?”
“Nope, just drinks, Xavier.” Turning to Grace: “Katie?”
Grace said, “A Coke, Uncle Wayne.”
“Coming up,” said the waiter. Wayne pressed a bill into his hand. The waiter’s eyes rounded. “You already gave me, sir.”
“Consider it a bonus, Xavier.”
“Thank you so much.” He scurried off.
Grace said, “Bonus for the empty booth next door?”
Wayne stared at her, sighed, turned away and pretended to study a framed drawing of a dead rabbit dangling amid fruit, flowers, and herbs.
Grace’s soda arrived, borne by a racewalking Xavier. She sipped. Wayne didn’t touch his martini. She waited as he worked his way through the entire basket of bread. Munching and flicking crumbs from his sleeve, he muttered, “Last thing I need, carbs.”
Xavier jogged over with a fresh basket, filled water glasses, asked if everything was okay.
“Perfect,” said Wayne.
When they were alone again, Grace said, “You’re a regular.”
“I try to get here when I’m on the Westside. I live in San Marino.”
He’d driven cross-town in serious traffic, intent on keeping this away from his home base. But he was comfortable enough to show her to the waiter. So this was a place he used for pleasure, not business.
Grace said, “Well, I appreciate your taking the time—”
“But of course, you’re my client.” He reached for his martini, took a long swallow, ate one of the olives. Chewing more than was necessary, he looked around the room, sat inert for another half a minute, reached into an inner suit pocket and drew out an envelope.
Small packet, something that might be used to mail back an RSVP. Grace concealed her disappointment. She’d hoped for a meaty packet of confidential documents.
Wayne dropped his hand and handed her the envelope under the table. The damn thing was light enough to be empty.
A hundred-thirty-mile backtrack for...?
He said, “Put it away, you can examine it later.”
“Of course. That was quick. Impressive, thanks.”
“I wish I could attribute it to my virtue but quite the opposite.”
Puzzled, Grace studied him.
He said, “I acquired it through lack of virtue, dear. More than that, sin. Of the deadly variety.”
Grace scrolled through the classic septet.
“Greed,” she said.
Wayne rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. “You always were quick, Dr. Blades. Yes, the old filth and lucre. Speaking of iniquity, I couldn’t find anything on those Fortress nuts. Including court records.”
Grace said, “There was no prosecution because everyone died in the shoot-out.”
He fished out another olive. “And you know that because...”
She realized she didn’t know. One of Sophia’s old jokes came to mind: Assume means make an ass out of u and me.
Grace frowned.
Wayne said, “I raise the issue because one maniac leader and three acolytes doesn’t make for much of a cult.”
She shrugged, still warding off shame at her muddled thinking.
Wayne said, “On the other hand, perhaps it was a mini-cult.”
The two of them laughed. Hard to say who was straining harder for levity.
Grace drank soda. Wayne finished his martini and waved for another. After Xavier delivered it, she said, “If there were others, why weren’t they arrested? Why wasn’t anyone else mentioned in the article?”
“Why, indeed, Grace, so you’re probably right. What surprised me, though, was the utter lack of coverage after the shoot-out. Generally, the press loves that kind of thing — psychological autopsies and such.” Another finger rub.
Grace said, “Someone had the clout to keep it quiet?”
“The possibility comes to mind.”
Grace thought about that. “Makes sense — maybe to get a family member off the hook. But not Roi, he was a prison guard, no connection. So one or more of the women.”
“My thoughts exactly,” said Wayne. “And my mind conjured a rich, stupid girl probably with drug issues. I see it all the time, working with wills and trusts.”