The wake-up Page 3

  Someone was knocking on the door. It had to be Pam and Claire. The outer gate was always locked, but Thorpe had made sure it was squeaky, too, regularly wetting down the hinges so it stayed rusty. He checked the peephole anyway.

  "Hey, Frank!" Pam grinned. "Got any lemons we could borrow?"

  The two of them followed him into his kitchen, dripping water with every step. When he opened the refrigerator, Pam hip-checked him, plucked three lemons off the rack, started juggling them, her breasts going peekaboo.

  Claire, older and quieter than her roommate, sat on the counter, long legs swinging as she watched Thorpe. A part-time college psychology instructor, she had probably already factored in the effect her position on the countertop would have on him, had precisely calibrated the proper speed with which to swing her legs.

  "How about some tequila to go with the lemons?" asked Pam. She opened a cabinet, pulled out a bottle of Cuervo Gold. "I'm taking the day off, and Claire doesn't have a class until- Whoopsie!" Lemons rolled across the floor. "Come out and play, Frank."

  "Maybe later."

  Claire placed a cool hand on his forehead. "You sure you're okay?"

  "Depends on the meaning of the word okay." After the plastic surgeon had cleared him to go home, Thorpe had grabbed a cab to Santa Monica, then taken another cab, from another company, to Long Beach. He took a bus to the Shore and slept. For a couple of days, he stayed in his apartment, too sore and too tired to do more than watch TV. Claire and Pam had come by every day with a six-pack of Carta Blanca, making him canned soup and scrambled eggs, keeping him company. They burned the soup, left bits of shell in the eggs, and didn't clean up. The beer was always cold, though. Not that he could have more than a couple of sips, what with all the antibiotics he was taking.

  Thorpe's cover story was that his gunshot wound was the result of a botched carjacking outside San Francisco. Claire asked to see his scar, then actually teared up when he showed her. The two of them brought him copies of Maxim, Stu f, and FHM, and she and Pam would argue with each other over the women in the magazines, disagreeing over which starlet had had surgery, which one was showing incipient droop-age, and which sexual advice to the frat boys was worse than useless.

  Claire whiled away his recovery by giving him psychological tests, Rorschach and Iowa Integrated and Dynamic Assessment. The tests were supposed to be unbeatable, but Thorpe fudged his answers so that the results were contradictory. She kept rechecking her findings, cursing softly, and giving him more tests. Claire and Pam talked too much and teased him without mercy, but on the days when they failed to come by, he kept listening for their footsteps, hoping they would show.

  Now Thorpe walked them to the door, then sat back at the computer. He logged off the insurance database and on to the California Division of Corporations. The president and sole proprietor of Meachum Fine Arts was Douglas Meachum, Laguna Beach.

  Thorpe tried the L.A. Times site, but the paper's archives drew a blank on Meachum Fine Arts or Douglas Meachum. The Orange County Register had done a bare-bones business story three years ago, when the company opened, "offering artwork tailored to the client's own unique aesthetic profile." Right. The Register story contained a couple of quotes from Douglas Meachum on the "esoteric and proprietary" methods used to align the art with the client, but there was no photo of him. The Gold Coast Pilot, however… bingo. Thorpe should have started there. The Pilot was a local weekly targeted at the yacht and tennis club set, the oceanfront nouveau riche crowd. Two years ago, they had done a full-page color feature on Meachum Fine Arts. He double-clicked on the accompanying photo, got a good look at Douglas Meachum posed in front of an ugly-ass Dali watercolor, a look of blithe condescension on his lean, handsome face. Meachum was the hard charger.

  He went back to the insurance Web site. Douglas Meachum was forty-five, lived in Laguna Beach, had a new Jaguar and three-year-old Ford Explorer on his policy. Pristine driving record. No tickets, no accidents. He did, however, have a wife. Thorpe wasn't surprised that Meachum was a player-it went with the arrogance and sense of entitlement that Thorpe had seen in the man's walk, the tilt of his head.

  A woman answered the phone at Meachum's gallery, identified herself as Nell Cooper, chief sales consultant. She said Mr. Meachum was on a business trip but would be back tomorrow, and perhaps there was something she could help him with? Thorpe said no, then asked if Halley Anderson was working today. Nell Cooper said there was no one with that name employed there. Thorpe thanked her and hung up. Then he called Halley Anderson. She picked up on the fourth ring.

  "Hello."

  "Hi, Halley. Is Doug there?"

  Hesitation on the other end, one hand muffling the receiver as she said something.

  "Who is this?" demanded Meachum, on the line now.

  "I saw you at LAX this morning. You were in such a rush, you knocked a kid down. You bloodied his nose and didn't even stop to say you were sorry. Bad manners, Doug."

  "How did you get this number?"

  "I wanted to give you a chance to apologize to the boy."

  "Are you an attorney?" asked Meachum. "Some ambulance chaser who thinks I'm going to admit to hitting this little wetback?"

  "I didn't say he was Latino, but don't worry, I'm not a lawyer. The boy's name is Paulo. You just have to tell Paulo you're sorry, and that will be the end of it."

  Silence on the phone.

  "What's there to think about, Doug? You draw blood, you apologize. It's common courtesy, but it will make a big difference to Paulo."

  "Did my wife put you up to this?"

  "I'm just trying to give you a chance to make things right," said Thorpe. "Remember all those fairy tales about the old woman who knocks on the castle door late one night, asking for a meal? An old woman who turns out to be a witch, or an angel? The lesson is always the same, Doug. When in doubt, be kind."

  "I'm not feeling very kind at the moment, Mr… Ah well, I don't really care who you are. Suffice it to say, if you bother me again, I'll contact the police."

  Thorpe listened to the dial tone. No apology. Well, a guy who took the easy way out wasn't the type who decked a kid and kept walking. Thorpe wasn't surprised at Meachum's response. He smiled. Truth be told, he wasn't disappointed, either. He got up, stretched, and went outside.

  "Frank!" Pam toasted him with the tequila bottle as Claire waved.

  Frank sat down on the grass beside the blue wading pool, admiring the way the water glistened on their skin. Rainbows everywhere and no pot of gold. Pam passed him the bottle. He took a swallow, felt the fire, and bit into a lemon wedge, the taste sharp and clean on his tongue. Bees buzzed in the flowers nearby. He took another swallow, then passed the bottle back.

  "Hey, you." Claire rested her head on the edge of the pool. "Something happen today? You hit the lottery or fall in love?"

  The tequila hit him hard and fast on an empty stomach. "Something like that. I've got all these possibilities… and no consequences."

  "What's he talking about?" asked Pam.

  Claire stretched in the sun. "It's like when we walk into a club and there's hotties everywhere, and we just have to decide which one to smile back at." She scooped water out of the pool and let it run off her fingers and onto her throat. "Most of the time, that's the best part of the evening, before we decide, when they're all spread out there before us, eager to please, and we haven't had to listen to their career plans."

  Pam took a swallow of tequila. "Speak for yourself, girl."

  Claire looked at Thorpe, her short hair beaded with water. "Did I get it right, Frank?"

  "Yeah, you stuck the dismount." Thorpe lay on the warm grass, feeling the glow of the tequila, enjoying the sun and the music. He hadn't felt this good since he was fired.

  3

  Meachum's house in Laguna was a piece of cake. Thorpe had seen Pokemon lunch boxes with better security. Located in a quiet neighborhood five blocks inland from the Pacific Coast Highway, the house was a modest stucco rambler dating from the
1960s, with large windows and a front walkway of worn paving stones. The yard was overgrown with shade trees, dry leaves drifting down. On the front porch, Thorpe could see two white wicker rocking chairs. No armed-response stickers on the windows, no motion-sensitive lights in back, no sign of a dog. The place was a walk-in, open and easy and inviting. Hard to imagine the hard charger living there.

  Even late in the afternoon, people were still parking on the narrow streets and making the trek to the beach, towels slung over their shoulders, sandals flip-flopping on the cracked sidewalk. Thorpe, in shorts and a Santa Barbara 10-K T-shirt, had made a circuit of the block, checked out the alley behind the rambler. Half the homes had their back doors wide open, hoping to catch some breeze. If anyone asked what he was doing, he carried a flyer from a nearby open house as cover-a three-bedroom, one-and-a-half-bath fixer-upper offered at $799,500. No one had asked him what he was doing, though. Laguna was a live-and-let-live town.

  Thorpe started down the alley toward his car, which was parked a few blocks away. He had accomplished what he'd come for. A casually dressed stranger in the neighborhood would draw no attention. He could bide his time, then slip inside while the Meachums were sleeping, and leave something for the hard charger-a torn copy of the state of California's community property statutes maybe, or the section of the tax code that detailed the penalties for putting a phantom employee on the books. Tuck it into Meachum's briefcase, or the pocket of his suit jacket.

  In a few days, Thorpe would show up at the gallery, check out the artwork, and when Meachum came over, he would ask him if he wanted to apologize to Paulo now. The hard charger would tighten a little around the mouth, demand to know what Thorpe really wanted, but he would do it. Even if he wasn't afraid of his infidelity being exposed, even if he and his wife had an "understanding" and his business accounts were straight, the thing that would make Meachum go woozy, the absolute nuts guarantee, was realizing that Thorpe had traipsed into his life. Once you cracked the Fortress of Solitude, there were no more hard chargers. Meachum would make the apology, and then wait for Thorpe to make the next move. A move that would never come. Thorpe had other priorities: He had decided not to go on vacation; he was going to stay around here until he found the Engineer. He could go to Florida after he killed the Engineer.

  Thorpe kicked a soda can down the alley, feeling good. A couple of old hippies approached, passing a joint back and forth. The woman's doughy flesh pushed out of her cutoff jeans, her breasts pendulous in a macrame bikini top, the man a scarecrow in tie-dyed trunks, a floppy hat atop his head. Hair everywhere, truck-tire huaraches on their feet, the two of them smelling of pot and patchouli. He watched them stagger away, holding hands now, fingers entwined, and the sight filled him with wonder and a longing that made his chest hurt. He hurried out of the alley and onto a side street, stumbling in his haste, as though being chased.

  Up ahead, a woman strode up the steep hill from downtown, a bag of groceries clutched in each arm. Her face was shiny with sweat, a handsome olive-skinned woman with dark hair curling past her shoulders. She wore a white embroidered peasant blouse, white pants cuffed at the ankle. She shifted the bags slightly as she reached the top of the hill, blew her hair out of her face, and grinned at him as she caught him watching.

  Thorpe smiled back.

  The woman gasped as the paper bag in her right hand broke, sending a cascade of groceries onto the sidewalk, a rain of fruits and vegetables and shattered glass jars. A bottle of Perrier foamed over her sandals. She held the other bag with both hands, surrounded by shards of glass, as Thorpe ran to help.

  Thorpe bent down, pulled a sliver of green glass from her foot, and wiped away the spot of blood with a fingertip. Her white cuffs were spotted with mayonnaise.

  "Be careful," she said as Thorpe gathered up the broken glass.

  "I'll be careful… Son of a bitch." He stood up. A piece of clear glass was embedded in his knee. He hadn't even seen it on the sidewalk.

  "You're hurt." She shifted her groceries again, concerned.

  "I'm fine. Stupid, but fine." Thorpe pulled the piece of glass out of his knee.

  She didn't move her feet, but scooped up loose fruit, then gave them a quick check and put them in the other bag. Her hands were nimble as she selected the groceries, the thick nails trimmed and unpolished, utterly feminine. He bent to help her, and the two of them worked together until the sidewalk was clean. Thorpe carefully folded up a paper bag they had put the pieces of glass in, and walked it over to a garbage can. He turned and found her standing beside him.

  "You're bleeding. Follow me. I live just a block away."

  "It's okay."

  "Don't be so male."

  "Do I have a choice?"

  "You got hurt helping me. Let me return the favor. Come on, tough guy." She beckoned, and he followed her, the two of them walking side by side. "I'm Gina."

  "Frank. Can I carry that bag?"

  "We're almost there. Are you house shopping? I saw you had a brochure."

  "Just looking."

  "It's a nice neighborhood." She slowed a few minutes later. "Here we are. Come up on the porch. I'll get some bandages and antiseptic."

  Thorpe stared. It was the Meachum house. Stunned, he watched her climb the steps.

  Gina must have misunderstood his hesitation. She nodded at one of the rattan rockers on the porch. "Make yourself comfortable. I'd invite you in, but the house is a mess." It was a nice lie, and he appreciated her making the effort. She took her groceries inside, the screen door banging behind her.

  Thorpe climbed onto the porch, still unsettled by the fact that Gina was Meachum's wife. He sat down, rocked gently as he looked out at the neighborhood, feeling as though any sudden movement would upset some fragile cosmic equilibrium. He felt the same way sometimes when he was on assignment, closing in on a subject, making conversation, his senses so acute that he worried his own elevated heartbeat would give him away. He kept rocking. The houses all had tiny front lawns, but most of the neighbors let their shrubs run rampant, growing high, vines blooming over the windows, giving more privacy. He liked the feel of it, the tropical excess. Sometimes it was just best to give in to nature.

  "What are you thinking about?" Gina stood in the doorway.

  "I like your place."

  "Thanks. I grew up in this house. My husband keeps wanting to remodel, but I can't do it." Gina came onto the porch with a first-aid kit, sat down across from him. "You don't have anything catching, do you?"

  "No. I'd tell you if I did."

  She propped Thorpe's leg up, used a gauze pad to wipe off the blood with those strong hands, no hesitation in her touch. Her black hair was thick and a little coarse-she pushed it back with her wrists as she worked-and her sweat was fragrant. He wondered how Douglas Meachum could cheat on her. He saw Meachum and the blonde driving away from LAX, and Thorpe wondered what kind of lies Meachum told himself when he was alone with the blonde, what lies he told the blonde about Gina. He watched her bent over his knee, and he realized that he couldn't involve her in the wake-up. He was going to teach Meachum a lesson, but the house was off-limits. He would have to squeeze Meachum through his business.

  "Ouch."

  "Don't be a baby." Gina cleaned the edges of the wound with a Q-tip now. Bits of color were speckled at the base of her cuticles: red, yellow, blue.

  "Are you a painter?"

  She rubbed her cuticles, pleased. "You're very observant." She checked the cut, put a fresh gauze pad on the wound. Her cell phone was beeping. "Hello." She looked at Thorpe. "I'm on the porch. Where are you?"

  Thorpe could hear Meachum's voice through the receiver, saying, "I'm still in New York. Where'd you think I'd be?"

  Gina averted her eyes, turned toward the street so that Thorpe couldn't see her face as she listened. "No, I haven't been by the gallery."

  "Why the hell not?"

  "Don't talk to me like that." Gina checked the gauze pad. "I'm busy, that's why." She looked away. "I had an
accident walking home from the grocery store. A man helped me." She glanced at Thorpe. "I don't know; I just met him. He cut himself on some glass helping me, so at this moment I'm taking care of him." She pulled the phone away from her ear, disgusted, and snapped it shut. It started beeping again, but she ignored it.

  "I'm sorry," said Thorpe.

  "For what?" Gina tore off strips of clear adhesive and taped him tight. "You'll live."

  4

  Thorpe had barely stepped inside Meachum Fine Arts when he was approached by a well-dressed woman in her thirties, a big-boned Bertha with a prim mouth, plenty of auburn hair, and the beginnings of a double chin. She wore a cream-and-brown suit, the skirt at midcalf, her large feet squeezed into matching two-tone pumps. "Good afternoon." She appraised him with a cool smile, took in the sleek, gunmetal gray suit, black silk T-shirt, black loafers. Vaguely European, hip without trying too hard. She showed her flat white teeth. "I'm Nell Cooper. How can I assist you?"

  Thorpe looked around the showroom, raised an eyebrow at the safe contemporary watercolors displayed against the right wall-sailboats and sunsets and dour Navajos. "I'm not at all sure you can."

  Reading his distaste, Nell pivoted slightly, inclined her head at the paintings, and raised an eyebrow. "We have to carry a full range of aesthetic options, Mr…"

  "Frank Antonelli. I'm moving into a home in Corona del Mar, and I thought you might be able to help me make it livable."

  She nodded. "Please call me Nell. I can assure you, Frank, that at Meachum Fine Arts we pride ourselves in finding the perfect fit between our clients and the fine art they choose to surround themselves with."

  "A perfect fit? That's a terrifying thought."

  Nell was knocked a little off stride by that, but she recovered quickly.

  Meachum Fine Arts was a one-story building in Newport Beach, right on the Pacific Coast Highway, with a black-and-white Op Art mural on the side facing the parking lot, and gold-flaked wood sphinxes flanking the doorway. The ocean was visible from the showroom, a beach volleyball game in progress, but the sound of the waves was muted by the thick tinted windows-you might as well have been watching ESPN. The distressed white pine floor creaked underfoot. The offerings were as eclectic as Nell had said-a red-toned Tenzing carpet, czarist Russian icons, and a museum-quality Italian rococo dresser-but there were too many soapstone sculptures of seals and dolphins. An oil painting got his attention, a realistic image of a traffic cop beckoning in bright sunshine, a bead of sweat rolling down the side of his face, one of his socks halfway down. Thorpe leaned closer.