"You said the Riddenhauers had no history of violence."
"They got a crew chief named Arturo who handles the rough stuff. A total hardball, but he looks like the president of the Jaycees. I didn't connect him with Clark until it was too late. These days, Arturo has a helper. Creepy type. Wouldn't think Arturo would need help, but there you go."
"The creepy one… tall and skinny, ultrawhite?"
"That's him. I seen guys in the morgue had more color."
"His name is Vlad. I met him at a party. He didn't seem so dangerous."
"I hope you're usually a better judge of character." Bishop buffed his black shoes with his hand. "Are you the one Clark and Missy are after?"
Thorpe shook his head. "A couple of innocent bystanders. I put them in the soup."
"Now you think you're gonna pull them out."
"That's right."
"Well, tell your innocent bystanders to relocate and not look back. That's my professional advice." Bishop checked his watch, stood up. "Duty calls."
Thorpe easily kept pace with Bishop, the man's limp more pronounced now. Bags of broken cement leaked grit into the bare ground. Cardboard coffee cups lay crushed underfoot. "You said Arturo had a helper now. Now. You're still keeping tabs on them."
"You're a good listener." Bishop kept walking. "I used to be the same way once. You may not be a cop… but you're something." He slipped his ID card into a time clock mounted on a railing. "Couple months after I lost my job, my wife walked out and took the kids with her. This may be hard for you to believe, but I wasn't the best husband in the world. She walked out, and I loved her so much, I didn't beg her to come back. I drifted for a couple of years; then my old partner heard about me, said if I cleaned up, he'd give me a job." His hands trembled slightly. "After I got myself under control, I figured I'd see what Clark and Missy were up to." He shook his head. "Maybe I just wanted to play policeman again. It's hard… hard to leave something you're good at."
The wind kicked up sand. Thorpe checked the area without making a big deal out of it.
Bishop stepped on an empty pack of Marlboros, crushed it flat. "Missy and Clark live in a fancy house in Newport with her brother, Cecil, who don't seem like much, from what I could see. Arturo and the new guy come and go as they please. I set up outside one of Clark's surf shops for a few days. Kept track of what went out the front door, what went out the back. That store isn't selling enough shirts and trunks even to pay for the air conditioning. I figured maybe he was dealing dope out of the stores, but I watched the clerks-they're not moving anything except their lips. I think Clark is using the stores to launder drug money."
"You take what you had to the locals?"
"Didn't have anything in the way of proof, and I'm not what any DA would consider a reliable source."
Thorpe shook his hand. "Thanks, Ray."
Bishop hung on. He had a good grip. "You're really going to try to stop them?"
"I made the mess; now I have to clean it up."
"Haven't you heard? Nobody picks up after themselves anymore." Bishop lowered his eyes. "When I first met Clark, he was a joke. Idiot lived eighty miles inland and all he talked about was big waves, surfing." He shook his head. "Now he lives in a mansion, and I clock in every fifteen minutes and shit in a Porta Potti. You tell me how that happened, Frank, because I'd really like to know."
Thorpe didn't answer.
"Yeah… well, you don't make promises, I like that." Bishop idly touched the pint bottle in his jacket. "I'd be willing to help you, though. Just as long as I keep out of sight."
"You've helped me plenty. It's on me now."
"Sure, I've been a big help." Bishop twisted the buttons on his uniform. "I got to make my rounds. Serve and protect."
21
"Oh, hello… Frank." Gina Meachum stood in her doorway, a hammer in her hand. A painting leaned against the sofa behind her. Her long dark hair was loosely bound with a strip of white lace, as though she had reached for whatever was handy to hold back her hair. She wore jeans and a cowboy shirt.
"I hate to interrupt," said Thorpe, "but-"
"Who is it?" Douglas Meachum called from inside the house.
"A friend," Gina answered, then waved Thorpe inside. "This isn't a very good time. I'm finishing up some loose ends." She pushed back her hair. "Have you found a house yet?"
"No… not yet." It was hard to lie to her. Even harder to tell her the truth. Did he start with the suggestion that they get out of town for a few weeks, or end with it? Should he smile when he assured them that he would take care of everything? Have no fear, Frank Thorpe is here. He followed her inside, watched as she hung the painting, trying to decide where to begin. The painting was a realistic bright oil of a play-ground scene, a little girl pushing a red toy truck through the sandbox while a boy watched her from halfway down a slide. You knew within moments they were going to be fighting over the truck.
Gina stepped back, set down the hammer on a chest. "What do you think?"
"I like it." Thorpe moved closer to her. "I need to talk to you and-"
"Who's your friend?" Meachum said from the hallway, wheeling a large suitcase into the living room. He was wearing the same peacock blue Emilio Zegna suit that he had sported at LAX.
"Frank is house shopping," said Gina. "We may be neighbors soon."
"We're a little busy right now, Frank," said Meachum, setting down the suitcases. He was handsome but stiff and angular, as though there was a clothes hanger across his shoulders. "We're leaving for Hawaii in the morning."
"Two weeks in Maui." Gina looked at Thorpe, made eye contact. "It's kind of a second honeymoon for us."
"No need to be melodramatic," said Meachum.
"Frank was at Missy's party," said Gina, still watching him. "He may be interested in some art for his new house."
Meachum smiled at Thorpe. "Is that correct?"
Thorpe had only two kinds of luck. Very, very bad or very, very good. "Yes… I was at the gallery a week or so ago, looking at some pieces. I talked to Nell-"
"You won't be talking to her anymore." Meachum grimaced. "That woman stabbed me in the back. Didn't even have the integrity to tell me what she had done. No gratitude in this world anymore." He took a deep breath, adjusted his necktie. "I'm sure you've read all about our difficulties in the paper. I can only hope that Betty B's column doesn't dissuade you from allowing me to fulfill your aesthetic needs. I can assure you that I maintain the highest standard-"
"The article said you gave Missy a full refund."
"Douglas has never been anything less than ethical with his clients," said Gina.
Meachum glanced at his wife. "Yes, I gave Missy a full and immediate refund."
"Then what's the problem?" asked Thorpe.
Meachum beamed. "Finally, someone who understands the business world. You're a breath of fresh air, Frank. Mistakes happen. What counts is how we deal with our mistakes."
"I think people have an almost infinite capacity for forgiveness, as long as the apology is sincere," said Gina. There was just the faintest edge to her voice.
"If Nell hadn't gone running to Betty B, no one would have had any complaints," said Meachum, avoiding her gaze.
"I thought you came out pretty well in the column," said Thorpe. "Missy was the one who got snakebit."