Tall Cool One (22 page)
“We need a plan,” Sam decided.
“Shelter.”
“Good, Anna.” Sam peered around. “What shelter?”
Anna could feel normalcy dig its way through the fog of her brain as she glanced back at the gathering storm and then scanned the terrain in the murky twilight. She couldn’t see much. Of what she could see, there was nothing taller than they were.
“This is dangerous,” she told her friend, and strode off into the desert. “We’re human lightning rods out here. Come on.”
“Come on
where?
” Sam called, but hustled after her friend.
Anna jogged south, hoping to find something—a hut, a lean-to, even a depression in the ground—that might provide some kind of shelter from the storm. She picked up her pace as another lightning bolt split the sky and cast an otherworldly glow on their surroundings.
“Anna, would you fucking wait!”
“No. Come on, Sam. Move it!”
Anna broke into a run; Sam followed. It was hard to see; they stumbled over rocks and bushes as the storm rushed in and the rain came—splatters at first, followed by a steadier flow. Then a bolt of lightning struck a cactus not three hundred feet from them, splintering it.
“Shit!” Sam bellowed.
“Over there!” Anna pointed. The lightning had been terrifying, but it had briefly illuminated something a few hundred yards to the left. Anna thought she had seen some white buildings. But now, in the pounding rain, she couldn’t see anything. Still, they had no other hope. “Go!”
They dashed in the direction that Anna had indicated. Another bolt of lightning lit up what Anna thought she’d seen—a compound of low-slung white buildings, behind a four-foot-high white stone fence. They clambered over the fence and found themselves on a perfectly manicured lawn, not far from a sparking swimming pool, a tennis court, a shuffleboard court, and a white gazebo. Lightning was flashing almost continuously now; they could see the buildings clearly. There were four—no, five of them, all in that same boxy white design. There were no lights. No sign of life. But at least they’d found some semblance of shelter, if they could get inside.
“Amazing!” Sam yelled over the noise of the storm as they ran to the closest of the white buildings. “Out here in the middle of nowhere!”
They circled the low building, looking for a way in. It was about the size of the largest of the guesthouses on the Sharpe estate in Beverly Hills, but it didn’t appear to have a door. Finally they came to what was obviously a garage door. Anna tried it; it wasn’t locked. She flung it open—it rolled back easily—and the girls stepped inside. As they did, a bank of automatic overhead lights came on.
“Whoa,” Sam said, checking out the contents of the building. “Check this out.”
They were indeed in a garage. One that housed five cars. A pearl gray 1932 Rolls-Royce. A cherry red Ferrari. A yellow Lotus. A metallic blue DeLorean. And a classic black Ford Model-T, perfectly restored. All of them had Mexican license plates.
Anna wrung out her wet hair. “Do you see what I’m seeing, or am I still hallucinating?”
“If you are, we’re sharing a three-million-dollar-auto vision,” Sam surmised, dripping water as she walked around the DeLorean. “This puppy is even more loaded than my father’s. Let’s check for keys. Maybe we can drive back to Las Casitas.”
“Don’t you think we should ask whoever lives here first?”
“Oh yeah. That,” Sam reluctantly agreed.
They went to the open garage door and peered out into the night. The storm was still raging; thunder shook the night. Anna pointed across the lawn toward where she thought she’d seen the biggest structure.
“I think the main house—whatever it is—is over there. Ready to run?”
Sam nodded.
“Okay, then . . . .go!”
Anna charged into the storm as yet another lightning bolt illuminated the sky. She saw the main building—low-slung and pure white, just like all the others—about two hundred feet away. She made it to the front door in record time, with Sam not far behind. She immediately leaned on the doorbell but heard nothing.
“The power must be out!” she yelled toward Sam over more rolling thunder.
Sam answered by pounding on the ornate carved-wood front door. No answer.
“There’s no one here!” she shouted. “Let’s go back to the garage!”
They went back and searched each car for keys. But they came up empty-handed. The only useful thing they found was a flashlight.
Wherever they were, they were there for the night. Alone.
J
ackson Sharpe was a man used to getting what he wanted. What he wanted right now was to locate his daughter, which was why he was furiously pacing back and forth in his bedroom, watching the clock tick down to seven o’clock. The same time they were scheduled to leave to make it to the NBC studios in Burbank for Leno’s show.
The search for Sam was making his life difficult. All through his workout with Billy Blanks and his session in the new tanning booth, he’d worried that he was wasting his time. Both activities were designed to make him look properly buff and golden on
The Tonight Show.
But unless they found Sam, that appearance was going to be ruined. What would he tell Jay to explain why his daughter was missing? And what if something truly bad had happened to Sam and her friend? What then?
Poppy sat on the bed, shredding a Kleenex into little pink balls. “She did this on purpose, I know she did.” She sniffed. “I knew she was planning something when she skipped my baby shower.”
“Can we just make sure she’s okay before we beat her up?” Jackson snapped.
Poppy put her hands protectively over her massive belly. “Please, sweetie. Indoor voice. You’ll upset Ruby Hummingbird.”
“Sorry.” Jackson paced some more until his cell phone rang. He flipped it open. It was Kiki, who’d finally tracked down the father of Sam’s new friend from New York. She announced that she had Jonathan Percy on three-way at a bed-and-breakfast up in San Simeon.
When Jackson told Jonathan what was going on, Jonathan reported that his daughter Anna was at the Las Casitas resort in Mexico.
Bingo.
Jackson asked Jonathan to call his daughter and see if Sam was there, too. A few minutes later, Jonathan rang back.
“Good news. I think your Sam is with my Anna,” he told Jackson. “One of my junior execs is at Las Casitas and says that Anna was with a friend who calls herself Mary Poppins.”
Double bingo.
Jackson remembered that when Sam was little, she adored the movie
Mary Poppins.
So much so that she insisted that the family hire a British nanny. Then she insisted that Jackson fire the nanny because she couldn’t fly.
“Evidently Anna and Mary went shopping at some town called La Trinidad. I left a message for her to call me immediately,” Jonathan reported. “And for Mary to call her father, too. We good?”
“Yeah, great. Thanks for the help, Jonathan.”
“Keep me posted, okay?”
Jackson hung up, somewhat relieved. At least he knew Sam was safe. But why did his daughter pull this shit? Maybe they needed to reconnect. He’d have to get Kiki to book a family day, just him and Poppy and Sam and prenatal Ruby Hummingbird. That would make a great photo op. And make up for whatever joke Leno was bound to make tonight at Sam’s expense.
Sam. Samantha. Samantha Sharpe.
Eduardo ruminated on her name as he dressed for his date. A sexy name for a sexy girl. He loved the way she looked. And he loved her outspokenness. Wimpy girls had never appealed to him.
For the evening, Eduardo decided to go simple but elegant: a handmade suit from a Hong Kong tailor that he favored and a plain black Gap T-shirt.
His thoughts went to Sam again. The curves of her body—lush and full and womanly—made his heart pound. When he’d caught a glimpse of her skinny dipping that night with her friend, she’d looked so amazing in the moonlight. She seemed full of joy, whooping with delight in the waves. He remembered everything: the line of her profile, how her eyes shone, the cascade of dark hair flowing down the lush curve of her back. Lunch with her on the island had sealed it. She’d been so funny, so charming. It had been all he could do not to ask her to cancel her shopping trip so they could be together for the rest of the afternoon.
Instead he’d played golf on the wonderful Las Casitas course. He’d been placed in a foursome with a vacationing South African pro who’d competed at the Masters. Normally he would have been thrilled. But instead he found himself thinking about her instead of his swing. Same thing later, when he was sailing one of the resort’s catamarans. Even back in his casita when the big rainstorm had blown through from the southwest.
He’d called Las Casitas’ florist and ordered two dozen tangerine blood roses to be sent to Sam’s casita with a note that read, LOOKING FORWARD TO TONIGHT. EDUARDO. The florist had called to tell him that no one had answered the knock, so they’d used a passkey to leave the roses in a vase on her coffee table. Eduardo was pleased; he hoped Sam would also be pleased when she returned from shopping.
Seven o’clock. Finally.
Eduardo walked the three hundred yards to Sam’s casita and knocked on her door. No answer. He knocked again. Nothing. This was curious. But perhaps she’d misunderstood, thinking they’d meet at the French restaurant.
But she wasn’t there when Eduardo checked. Nor in the main lobby. So he waited patiently at the lobby bar. Seven-fifteen
P.M.
Seven twenty-five P.M. Seven-thirty P.M.
Then the resort’s surfing instructor—Eduardo couldn’t recall his name, but he’d taken an excellent lesson with him a couple of days before—strode into the lobby, obviously looking for someone.
“Get stood up?” Eduardo asked, only half joking.
Kai looked at Eduardo closely. “Didn’t I see you this morning? With Anna Percy and her friend?”
Eduardo nodded. “Saman—Mary. We were supposed to have dinner at seven. But she’s not in her casita. And she’s not here, either.”
Kai shoved his hands into the pockets of his loose chinos. “I was supposed to meet Anna for sushi at seven. But she’s a no-show, too. And she strikes me as the prompt type. I’ve looked everywhere for her.”
“They went to La Trinidad this afternoon. Just a moment.”
Eduardo left the bar to ask the diminutive French concierge what time the resort van had returned from La Trinidad with Anna Percy and Mary Poppins.
The concierge kept his voice confidential, but his hands fluttered as he answered. “It seems there is a bit of confusion, Mr. Munoz. The young ladies never met us. Nor have they called the hotel, to our knowledge. We’re looking for them as we speak.”
“What?”
Eduardo was incredulous.
The concierge winced and made a placating gesture. “Please, sir. We are doing everything possible to ascertain their whereabouts. Perhaps the young ladies decided to dine in La Trinidad and neglected to call the hotel.”
“I was to meet one of those young ladies for dinner,” Eduardo declared apprehensively. “And your employee over there was supposed to meet the other.” He nudged his head toward Kai.
“We are not in the habit of babysitting our guests, Mr. Muñoz,” the concierge explained, careful to keep his tone polite. “We very much respect privacy here at Las Casitas. But I assure you, we
are
looking for them.”
“You pride yourself on having the world’s best security!” Eduardo exclaimed. “How could this have happened?”
The concierge, none too tall to begin with, seemed to shrink. “Sir,” he explained, “our security is unparalleled. But it is designed to keep those not registered as guests
out.
Not to keep registered guests
in.
”
Eduardo forced himself to calm down. “I understand. But you must call the local police. No. Call the Mexican
federales.
In the meantime, I’m going to telephone their families. Let’s start with Miss Poppins. Her number, please. Now.”
Several hundred miles to the north, there was a knock at Jackson’s door. Kiki stuck her head in. “We have to leave for the studio if we’re going to make the taping.”
Jackson peered into the mirror over his dresser and brushed some lint from the collar of his jacket. “Christ. What a mess. Where are her friends?”
“Dee’s in her room. Adam and Cammie are watching TV downstairs. They say they’re not going home until we hear from Sam.”
Jackson turned to Kiki. “That’s nice, anyway.” He shook his head. “How can she be so damn flaky? What the hell am I paying that quack Dr. Fred for, anyway? How can—?”
His phone rang—the landline, not his cell. He picked it up. “Yeah?”
“Mr. Jackson Sharpe?”
Jackson didn’t recognize the British-accented male voice. “Who’s calling?” he asked warily. Sometimes the oddest people managed to unearth his unlisted home phone number.
“My name is Eduardo Muñoz. I am a friend of your daughter, Samantha. We met here at Las Casitas resort in Mexi—”
“Where is my daughter?” Jackson demanded.
“That’s why I am calling, sir. I don’t work for the resort. I’m a friend.” Quickly Eduardo filled Jackson in on the few facts he knew.
“You mean they’re
missing?
”
“I don’t mean to alarm you. Perhaps the girls are off having a marvelous time. But perhaps not.”
An unfamiliar feeling began in the region of his Jackson’s heart. A tightening of the chest. It was fear. But he knew instantly that fear would not locate his daughter. That would require decisive action. He had the young man ask for the chief of resort security. But the chief of security was out in the field, searching for Sam and Anna. An underling was put on the phone.
“Have you brought in the police?” Jackson barked.
“Yes, of course, sir, it’s already done,” the underling reported. “And might I add that it is a pleasure to speak with you, Mr. Sharpe. I am a big fan. I have seen all your movies.”
Jackson closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. It never failed to amaze him how people would go into that I’m-your-biggest-fan thing at the most inappropriate times. When he was taking a piss at the Ivy. At the memorial service for Christopher Reeve. And now, while his daughter was missing in a foreign country.
