Tim looked away, unsettled as always when confronted with his father's talent.
"Well, before you get too swept away in moral indignation, let me remind you of this: Those schemes fed you every meal of your childhood." His tone, as always, remained conversational, as calm as a flatline. "They dressed you, paid for your school supplies, afforded you the bed in which you slept every night. There's a little piece of me in you – in everyone, actually, but especially in you. It's in my DNA, packed into every one of your angry little cells."
Revulsion rose in the back of Tim's throat. A familiar flavor -the same he'd grown up with.
"Beware pride, Timmy. It's the most dangerous trait. We are low creatures. If we're foolish, we hold self-illusions. If we're smart, we use others' self-illusions against them."
"Fortune-cookie insert?"
"Need I remind you pride landed you in your own little quagmire last year?"
"My daughter being murdered might have had something to do with it, too."
"True. Quite true. How is Andrea?"
"Fine."
"Send her my regards."
"I will. We finally cleaned out Ginny's room…" Tim paused, stupidly anticipating some response but drawing only a slightly bored gaze. His capacity for expecting change in his father staggered him in its imperviousness to data. No matter how much he'd toughened into adulthood, some hardwired hope still flickered, the glow of a pilot light. He remembered, too late, Dray's warning.
His father's face sharpened, as if Tim's words had just sunk in. "You know what might go well in there? Your mother's old drafting table."
"You still have it?"
"Yes, but it's up in the rafters. A hassle to get down."
"I could take care of that."
"It's worth some money."
Tim took a moment to respond, his face burning. "I could pay you for it."
A pristine Lexus screeching into the lot drew his father's attention – more pressing matters at hand. The plate frames broadcast a Beverly Hills dealership. A tanned man in a crisp suit popped out and headed for them, a mascara-heavy girlfriend trailing in his wake.
To Tim's surprise, his father turned away from the approaching customer, absorbed in some paperwork. He slid a pair of eyeglasses from a drawer, an odd move given his 20/15 vision.
"Excuse me. Excuse me."
Tim's father glanced up over the rims of the lenses. "Yes?"
The man stood with his legs slightly spread, suit fabric pulling tight at the biceps. The girlfriend arrived, a bit winded, and took up what appeared to be her customary post behind his shoulder.
"I'm looking for an Alpine ALD 900. The guy my dealer outsources to can't get his hands on one. Can you?"
Tim's father's eyes returned to the folder before him. "Pardon me for saying so, sir, but that's an extremely exclusive line. Perhaps I could recommend something a bit more…reasonably priced?"
Head bowed, Tim took his leave, heading out into the morning blaze. Behind him he heard the customer's raised voice. "Why don't you get it for me and let me worry about what I can afford?"
And his father, setting the hook with newly realized chagrin -"Right away, sir."
Chapter fourteen
Tim asked Dray to join him for his six o'clock drive to Hidden Hills. They tangled in traffic at Thousand Oaks, lurching along beside a glossy red Ferrari with an Angels flag snapping from the rear window. Tim worked his lip between his front teeth, and Dray watched the scenery inch by, letting him muse. Between Top 40 hits on 98.7, Ryan Seacrest bemoaned his dating life.
Though growing up with a despotic father, an expended mother, and four older brothers hadn't been a breeze through the express lane, Dray had a perception about family matters that far exceeded his own – one of the reasons he wanted her with him at the Hennings'. Plus, as a sheriff's deputy, she had a stronger handle on state law.
The Hennings' house, an enormous Spanish colonial with pantile roofing, abutted an equestrian arena. The solid-core oak door, buttressed by strips of hammered iron, opened to a vaulting foyer and a displeased man with the size and bearing of a WWF grappler.
"Help you?" His nose, flattened and asymmetrical, suggested a history guarding club doors or encountering hockey boards. Black hair shorn in a buzz cut didn't widen his casting options. The Mickey Mouse voice, so discordant given his build, tipped Tim that this was the spirited caller he'd hung up on earlier in the day. One of Will's men.
"Yes, Tim and Andrea Rackley here to see Will." Tim's proffered hand hung in the air for a moment before he withdrew it.
The man stepped back, letting them enter. He walked with a slight limp, a cocker spaniel materializing to scurry alongside him. His body language suggested he was not a dog person. Tim and Dray followed him across a wide stretch of ceramic tiles into an expansive kitchen area. A wall of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked an unrestrained lawn. Perched on two barstools pulled up to a granite-topped island, Will and Emma were finishing an early dinner. Though the meal seemed casual enough, Emma wore a conservative dress, stockings, and slingbacks. Perusing the Hollywood Reporter, Will foiled her in a velour jogging suit, royal blue with an embroidered F prominently displayed.
"Rooch Banner," Will said proudly, his game-show-host sweep of the arm acknowledging the low-grade butler. "Maybe you recognize him. He had a half season with the Rams."
Tim's apologetic shrug probably didn't help him with Rooch in the rapport department. Dray admired the photos adhered to the Sub-Zero -Will lying on his back flying the baby above him, the baby dressed as a sunflower for her first Halloween, a weary postpartum Emma snuggling the baby in a loaf of pink blanket.
Will drained a glass of vivid green liquid. To Dray's bemused stare, he said, "Blue-green algae. Antioxidants," then threw down his napkin and rose. Rooch set about clearing the plates as Will gestured them down a hall. They passed a palatial Pilates room and a home theater with rows of cushioned seats, finally descending into a sunken living room rimmed with couches and adorned with energetic one-sheets of films Will had produced.
Will sank down and patted the cushion. "C'mere, pooch."
The dog leapt up and curled under his arm. It yapped a few times, tail wagging. Emma snapped her fingers at it irritably.
Hurwitz, Gregg – Rackley 02 the Program (2004)
Will rose and headed for a bar in the corner. A framed picture showed Leah in high-school-graduation garb, a pair of boxers and a smiley-face T-shirt peeking out beneath the gown. She was flashing the peace sign and smiling at someone out of the photo's span. It would take a strong-willed kid to argue that outfit past Emma. Tim wondered whether Leah's unorthodox attire explained why the photo was consigned to the bar. His mind moved to the baby's pictures proudly displayed on the refrigerator.
Will dug into an ice bucket that Tim noted was kept packed. "Drink?"
"I'm fine."
"Vodka rocks," Dray said.
Will poured her an alcoholic's fill, which he matched in his own glass.
Emma took the opportunity to shoo the cocker spaniel from the couch. The dog took off, probably in search of Rooch, his reluctant playmate.
Will handed Dray her drink, then threw a glance at his Cartier. "Nice of you to make it."
Tim ignored the sarcasm. "No problem."
"Would it be rude of me to ask why your wife decided to tag along?"
"We want her brain on this. She's smarter than me."
A petite cry echoed down the tiled hall. Will and Emma tensed until the baby was soothed into silence by an unseen retainer. Mrs. Rooch?
Will sat back down on the couch. "Marco informed me you were reinstated. As I promised earlier, I'm happy to pay you an additional stipend on the side."