Runaway Heart (36 page)

     
"Maybe you should ditch it and get a rental."

     
"Except the Wirta Agency is ever vigilant as it watches over
your expense sheet." If Jack was expecting some kind of praise for his
courage and frugality, he was disappointed. What he got were strained looks all
around. It seemed the spear gun caper and car theft had turned his karma brown.

     
Sandy and Herman recounted their ordeal with the chimera in
Streisand's guesthouse. Jack thought it was by far the better story.

     
"You actually
saw
one?" Susan asked, amazed.

     
"Honey, not only did I see it, but it wanted us to help
it."

     
Susan frowned. "I thought you said it tried to kill
you."

     
"The more I think back . . . I'm not sure. Sandy doesn't
agree, but I think it was reaching out to us, with a pleading look all over its
face . . . in its eyes."

     
Sandy looked over at Jack. "Herm wants to believe it was
pleading for help, but I can tell you, the only way we got away was by jumping
into the pool. They can't swim." They all sat awkwardly at the small table
searching for something to say. Finally it was Herman who continued. "We
grabbed my things, then went out through the side gate and escaped up the
beach. We had to leave the cars. Since the chimera killed the deputy, there're
enough cops standing around at Barbra's to open a donut franchise. We walked
the two miles to get here." Then Herman announced his legal strategy. He
was going to file a TRO against DARPA on behalf of "Charles Chimera, a
being." He was going to use this case to change the rules on standing.
Then, as they sat in stunned slence, he detailed the rest of his plan.

     
"I hope it works," Sandy said softly. "If it
doesn't, you'll be on CNN, eating crow."

     
Herman and Sandy ordered food while Jack and Susan had coffee.
Sandy Toshiabi started sketching on her paper place mat while waiting for the
food to arrive. By the time they had finished dinner she had completed the
drawing. She turned it around for all of them to see. It was a remarkably good
sketch of the thing that had chased them into the pool.

     
"It really looks like that?" Jack asked, thinking it
resembled a prehistoric man, but with a more intelligent face.

     
"That's exactly what it looks like," Herman confirmed.

     
After paying the bill they walked back to the lobby. Herman said
he and Jack could share one room, Susan and Sandy the other. At Jack's
suggestion, they stopped at the front desk to change the registration into
Sandy's name.

     
Jack said, "I wanna check on this address in Bel Air that
Shane gave me. See who lives at 264 Chalon Road. I'll be back in two or three
hours."

     
"I'm coming with you," Susan said. Jack started to
refuse, but, the truth was, he was really enjoying her company, so he ended up
agreeing.

     
They left Sandy and Herman plotting the lawsuit and got back into
the Jag and drove south on PCH, then followed Sunset toward Beverly Hills.

     
What they were about to find wasn't as strange as Herman's
chimera, but it sure as hell would change the events that followed.

H
alfway to Bel Air, Susan opened the
glove box and started searching around inside. "Whatta y'doing?" Jack
asked.

     
"I want to see who, exactly, is gonna be charging you with
grand theft auto." She pulled out the registration and read it. "
'Baxton Hammond Jr.' " She looked at Jack. "I think I've heard of
him."

     
"You're kidding, right?" Jack said. "And the hits
just keep on coming."

    
 
"Who is
he?"

     
"Bax Hammond. The Orange County D.A."

     
Suddenly, Susan started laughing. Whether it was just a release of
tension or she thought it was really funny, Jack couldn't tell, but her
laughter was infectious, and soon he was roaring as well. He had tears in his
eyes. Hopefully they'd still see the humor after completing their
two-and-a-half-year GTA sentences in Soledad.

     
Jack continued down Sunset. "That's it up ahead."

     
They were both still smiling as he turned into the Bel Air
entrance. After driving for about six blocks up into the foothills they found
264 Chalon Road.

     
It was an impressive Spanish mansion, and there was some kind of a
high-profile party going on. Black-suited security was checking every
invitation at the foot of the pillared driveway. Valets in red coats scurried
back and forth, jumping into arriving cars, pulling away fast, and racing them
up the hill to park. A truck from Along Came Mary Catering was parked across
the street.

     
Jack pulled up to the nearest attendant. "Is this the
Goldbergs' party?" he asked a teenage boy, who looked like he had probably
just started driving about a week ago.

     
"No sir, this is the Ibanazi house. Invitation only."
The valet wrinkled his nose in distaste. Jack's wardrobe was finally dry, but
it must have fallen well below the guest profile.

     
"Wrong blast. I'm going to Whoopi's. Sorry!" Trying for
some payback.

     
Jack put the Jag in gear and pulled up a side street away from all
the valet madness. As he looked for a place to pull over, he handed Susan the
car phone. "Call 411 and see if he's listed."

     
She dialed Information and asked for Russell Ibanazi's phone
number on Chalon Road. She scribbled it down and hung up.

     
Jack mulled options. Then he picked up her cell phone.

     
"What're you gonna do?" she asked.

     
"Gonna get us invited to this party." He dialed the
number.

     
"Ibanazi residence," a pleasant-sounding woman said.

     
"Good evening, this is Mr. Wirta. Project supervisor for Along
Came Mary? To whom is it that I might be speaking?" Saying it like he had
a broom handle up his ass.

     
"This is Mrs. Dorsett. I'm Chief Ibanazi's record company
vice president."

     
"Good. Right-o. I was in the neighborhood, just wanted to
make sure all of your catering choices were delivered exactly as planned."
Adding a tinge of Limey accent now for flavor.

     
"Yes, I guess. But I'm not the one who made the catering
arrangements."

     
"Did the smoked-duck empanadas with caviar centers arrive?"
Jack breezed on.

     
"Uh . . . I don't. . . did we order those?"

     
"Three trays. I specifically told John to have those over by
five."

     
"Uh . . . John?" She seemed confused.

     
"How 'bout the Roma tomato bruschettas, and the brie en croute
with raspberry walnut sauce?"

     
"Uh . . . well. . . I think I saw some shrimp scampi and some
spinach quiche."

     
"Can't be. The quiche was for Warren and Annette's pool
party. Don't tell me the cold octopus pie didn't make it?" Just sort of
screwing with her now.

     
"Uh . . . cold octopus?"

     
"It seems there's been a horrible flummox. To begin with,
please tell that wonderful Chief Ibanazi that we are absolutely not charging
him for any of the things that he didn't order, and I will personally deduct
twenty percent from the invoice for this horrible mistake. I'm going to dash
right over to check into this personally. I'd appreciate it if you might notify
your security people at the gate, that Mr. Jackson Wirta and Ms. Susan
Strockmire from Along Came Mary will be along directly. In the meantime, could
you be a dear and make an inventory sheet of what's already out so we can get
this mess unscrambled?"

     
"But the catering was handled by Louis. I didn't arrange for
any of this." Ass-covering, pure and simple.

     
"Not your fault, Mrs. Dorsett and it's not Louis's
either—it's ours. And we can thank the Queen's butler, you and I caught it in
lickety-split time." Jack almost said "Tallyho," but thought he
was already over the top, so he just hung up.

     
"That Brit accent really stunk," Susan grinned.

     
"It got us into the party."

     
They waited a few minutes for Mrs. Dorsett to make the call, then
pulled down within sight of the security/valet station. Jack waited until the
first valet he'd spoken to whizzed off to park a Porsche Targa. Then he put the
Jag in gear and pulled up.

     
"I'm Jackson Wirta," he said to another teenager as they
both got out. "This is Ms. Strockmire. I think Mrs. Dorsett rang you
up." Still using the phony accent.

     
"Right," the security goon said. "With the
caterers. She just called. Go on up."

     
Jack took a valet ticket and then headed up the long, winding
brick driveway toward a sprawling Spanish mansion with a red-tiled roof. There
were at least four acres of manicured lawns with an Olympic-size pool and
seventy-foot palm trees that swayed overhead, waving their giant fronds like
skinny, fan-wielding eunuchs. Fountains gushed and spurted. Young Beverly Hills
trophy wives clutched their geriatric keepers and mingled competitively.

     
Jack and Susan skirted the growing crowd of about a hundred and
fifty guests. Across the pool, holding court under the cabana, sat the Indian
chief.

     
Russell Ibanazi was a remarkably handsome man who, as Shane had
mentioned, was only thirty years old. His dark good looks and Hollywood dress
gave him a definite nouveau tilt. He laughed at something one of the women near
him said, and when he did his smile sparkled like bone china. He was wearing an
Armani suit with Gucci sunglasses hanging off his top shirt button. An Amstel
Light was clutched casually in his right hand.

     
"Groovy-type Indian," Jack said.

     
"What were you expecting, a loin cloth?" Susan frowned.

     
"No, but I was hoping for a couple of hair feathers."

     
Jack began circling Chief Ibanazi like a reef shark scoping prey.

     
"He's so young," Susan said.

     
"He's also listed. In Beverly Hills, you're only in the book
if you're still hoping people will call you. Sure sign of social insecurity.
Could be a sucker for my
Daily Planet
thing."

     
"Your what?"

     
"Just play along," Jack said, and strolled toward
Russell, pulling a pen out of his pocket along with his small spiral detective
notebook. He waited for a hole in both the conversation and the swirling
entourage, then stepped neatly through both.

     
"Mr. Ibanazi? Clark Lane, with
213 Magazine.
This is
one of the nicest events we've been to in months."
213
was
the first area
code assigned to Beverly Hills and was also the name of a slick magazine that
featured its rich and famous.

     
Russell Ibanazi's head snapped up like he'd just been hooked with
a twenty-pound test line.

"213?" the Chief grinned.
"You guys thinkin' about doing a story on me?"

     
"Maybe . . . maybe . . . could be . . . could be," Jack
mused. "This is our society editor, Lois Kent."

     
"Hi," Susan smiled, seductively.

     
From that point Russ Ibanazi was hooked like a Baja game fish. He
shook Jack's hand energetically. He smiled at Susan longingly.

     
"I just started my own record label. That's why we're having
the party. To promote Miracle Records." He exuded charm.

     
"Watch out for the critics on that one," Jack warned.
"They're sarcastic bastards. You don't wanta give them an easy shot."

     
Russell's face scrunched up into a confused frown.

     
Jack spread his hands. " 'If it's a good song, it's a
Miracle.' Easy slam. See the problem?"

     
Ibanazi's face fell. "I never thought of that. I see your
point. We just went in business. Maybe I should come up with something
else?"