Attractive, well-maintained structure, with a full-width front porch, a neat square lawn flanked by a pair of mature magnolias, precise beds of flowers rimming the grass. Generous but proportional to the narrow lot and dwarfed by the newer look-at-me Spanish and Mediterranean stucco heaps that replaced several older structures.
A silver Volvo station with a Save the Bay bumper sticker sat in the driveway. Grace parked six houses south and turned off her engine. Eight minutes later a slim, ponytailed, thirtyish blonde wearing a shoulder-baring blue cashmere sweater over white skinny jeans teetered on three-inch heels as she toted an almond-eyed, doll-like infant and a diaper bag into the Volvo.
The woman-likely-to-be-Bridget-Chung spent a considerable amount of time offering Tenth Street a view of her enchanting glutes as she settled the baby into a rear restraint-seat. Far too little attention was paid to cross-traffic as she backed out of the driveway at full speed.
The Volvo narrowly missed colliding with a white Lexus barreling from the north. Horn honks were followed by window-glass-muted outrage from the older woman behind the wheel of the Lexus.
No reaction from Lithe Mom Bridget. As she drove away, her hand and eyes were fixed on her phone.
Smiling and texting.
Grace remained in her Escape for ten additional minutes. Several more cars drove by, all luxury models. A two-minute lull broke when a slim, middle-aged woman who could’ve been Bridget Chung’s mother stepped out of the neighboring Spanish — one of the older, original houses, a smallish one-story — and began watering potted plants near her front door.
Grace got out, walked to the green Craftsman, and studied its façade.
The woman stopped watering. “May I help you?”
Squinting, tight-lipped. One of those Neighborhood Watch stares.
All the better.
Grace smiled and approached her.
The woman remained wary, hands tight around the handle of her watering can. Her lips moved as she read the fake business card Grace held out.
“Commercial and Industrial Security. Like alarm systems?”
“We consult to individuals and corporations contemplating real-estate transactions.”
“Consult about what?”
“Residential patterns, upkeep, environmental and civic issues that might come up.”
“Come up when?”
“In the event of a transaction.” Grace cocked a head at the Craftsman.
“They’re selling? To a company?”
“That I can’t say, ma’am. I get a list of addresses, come out and record the data.”
“Well, you need to know that this is a first-class neighborhood.”
“No doubt about that, Ms...”
“Mrs. Dena Kroft.” She glanced at the green house. “If it was up to me, they’d be out tomorrow.”
“Problem neighbors?”
“Loud,” said Dena Kroft. “Parties all the time, yelling around the pool, what sounds like heavy drinking. He’s some kind of computer nerd, Asian, more money than God. She’s an airhead.”
Loathing was fertile grounds for rapport. Grace said, “That’s obvious from her driving. Just as I got here, she zoomed out of her driveway, nearly T-boned another car. With her baby inside.”
“Exactly,” said Dena Kroft. She handed the card back. “We’ve been on the block for thirty-two years. It was a perfect neighborhood until the N.R.’s started moving in.”
“N.R.’s?”
“Nouveau riches,” said Dena Kroft. “Asian, Persian, or they can be anything, whatever. They tear down lovely houses, get variances through their connections, and build monstrosities on every inch of lot. If you want all interior space and no greenery, why not just get a condo?”
“Indeed,” said Grace.
“Before them, the block was mostly doctors, top-notch people on the staff at Saint John’s. My husband’s a radiologist there. Peter Kroft.”
As if Grace was supposed to recognize the name. “Great hospital.”
“Best in the city,” said Dena Kroft. “I was hoping he’d keep the house. The son of the people who lived here.”
“He’s a doctor?”
“Some kind of engineer.” Kroft leaned in, lowered her voice. “Adopted, but you’d never know. They actually got him into Harvard-Westlake.” Peering at Grace. “Did you go to Buckley? You look like a girl in my daughter’s class.”
“No, ma’am, sorry. You’d never know he was adopted because—”
“It’s like going to the pound and picking out a mutt, you never know what you’re going to end up with. But Teddy and Jane were fortunate with Andy. A very well-behaved boy, quiet, no shenanigans.”
Grace said, “Sounds like the perfect neighbor.”
“The perfect neighbors would be a quiet family,” said Kroft. “But certainly, a quiet young man would be better than the likes of them. It’s a lovely house, though a bit dark. I must admit I’m a bit peeved that Andy wasn’t more sentimental. He was never here, anyway. Ended up selling.”
“Maybe he thought it was too much house for one person.”
“One adapts,” said Dena Kroft. “But he was away all the time. In the Orient, that’s where he spends a lot of time. He was there when Teddy and Jane had their accident — they fell off a mountain hiking. They were always hiking, big physical fitness buffs, you know.”
“Must’ve been hard on him,” said Grace. “Being away.”
“Andy? I’m sure. He showed up two days later. I remember him being dropped off by a cab, carrying his bags, looking terrible, just crestfallen. I suppose he can’t be faulted for not wanting to be tied down with the property but I sure wish he’d done his civic duty and sold to somebody decent. So tell me the truth, young lady. You’re one of those credit checkers, right?” She hooked a thumb at the green house. “They’re in trouble, all that computer money is smoke and mirrors and they’re going to lose the place.”
Grace smiled. “You never know, Mrs. Kroft.”
Dena Kroft laughed. “What goes around comes around.”
Chapter 34
Before returning to Torrance, Grace had dinner at a quiet place in Huntington Beach, was back in her room by nine p.m.
Figuring Andrew’s age was the same as hers, give or take, she searched for records of his high school days at Harvard-Westlake. The prep school was protective of its alumni, offering nothing, and an online search company required too much personal info to justify learning about his extracurricular activities.
One impressive fact: He’d gotten into an exclusive Ivy League feeder after spending his childhood in a squalid desert cult. And witnessing bloodshed.
You and me both, Andy.
Curious if his academic success had continued, Grace paired his name with each of the Ivies. Wondering if the two of them could’ve actually been at Harvard together.
But nothing from the hallowed halls of Cambridge. Same for New Haven, Princeton, Philadelphia...
Then she thought engineer and tried MIT and Caltech. Zero.
No big deal, there were plenty of other top schools to choose, beginning locally: USC, where Malcolm taught and Grace had earned her doctorate. The Pomona colleges, UCLA. If none of those panned out, the other UCs — Berkeley.
The most venerable University of California campus dominated the city where Andrew’s brother had lived and learned the dark side of the insurance business.
The only business, it occurred to Grace, that thrived on not providing service. Talk about a psychopath’s dream.
Had the brothers’ reunion begun with a chance meeting on Telegraph or University Avenue?
Pairing andrew van cortlandt with berkeley and every other UC campus produced the same negative results. Most students spent their undergrad years without attracting attention so this entire approach could be a waste of time.