The Face (3 page)

In any case, this was not the merry expression of a prankster. Captured on videotape, this curve of lips and bared teeth suggested a lunatic glee that required a full moon and medication.

Splashing through black puddles filigreed with silver by the headlights, Reynerd returned to the car.

As the Honda pulled off the shoulder and onto the eastbound lane once more, Camera 01 executed a swivel and zoom, then Camera 02. Both delivered readable shots of the rear license plate.

Dwindling into the night, the car conjured briefly lingering ghosts from its tailpipe.

Then the narrow street lay deserted, in wet gloom except for the lamps at the Manheim gate. Black rain, as if from a dissolving night sky, poured down, poured down, driving the darkness of the universe into the universally coveted Bel Air real estate.

Before leaving his quarters in the west wing, Ethan called the housekeeper, Mrs. McBee, to report that he’d be out most of the day.

More efficient than any machine, more dependable than the laws of physics, as trustworthy as any archangel, Mrs. McBee would within minutes dispatch one of the six maids under her command to Ethan’s apartment. Seven days a week, a maid collected the trash and provided fresh towels. Twice weekly, his rooms were dusted, vacuumed, and left immaculate. Windows were washed twice a month.

There were advantages to living in a mansion attended by a staff of twenty-five.

As the chief of security overseeing both the Face’s personal protection and the safeguarding of the estate, Ethan enjoyed many benefits, including free meals prepared by either Mr. Hachette, the household chef, or by Mr. Baptiste, the household cook. Mr. Baptiste lacked his boss’s training in the finest culinary schools; but no one with taste buds ever complained about any dish he put on the table.

Meals could be taken in the large and comfortably furnished dayroom, where the staff not only ate but also did their household planning, spent their coffee breaks, and strategized all arrangements for the elaborate parties often held when the Face was in residence. Chef or cook would also prepare a plate of sandwiches or any other requested treat that Ethan might want to take back to his quarters.

Of course, he could prepare meals in his apartment kitchen if he preferred. Mrs. McBee kept his fridge and pantry stocked according to shopping lists he presented to her, at no expense to him.

Except for Monday and Thursday, when one of the maids changed the bedclothes—Mr. Manheim’s linens were cycled daily when he was in residence—Ethan had to make his own bed each morning.

Life was hard.

Now, after shrugging into a soft leather jacket, Ethan stepped out of his apartment into the ground-floor hallway of the west wing. He left his door unlocked as he would have done if he’d owned the entire house.

He took with him a file that he’d made on the black-box case, an umbrella, and a leather-bound copy of
Lord Jim
by Joseph Conrad. He had finished reading the novel the previous evening and intended to return it to the library.

More than twelve feet wide, paved with limestone tiles featured through most of the main floor of the house, this hall was graced by softly colored contemporary Persian carpets. High-quality French antiques—all from the Empire period, and including the late-Empire style called Biedermeier—furnished the long space: chairs, chests, a desk, a sideboard.

Even with furniture to both sides, Ethan could have driven a car through the hall without grazing a single antique.

He might have enjoyed driving a car through the hall if he would not have had to explain himself to Mrs. McBee afterward.

During the invigorating hike to the library, he encountered two uniformed maids and a porter with whom he exchanged greetings. Because he occupied what Mrs. McBee defined as an executive position on the staff, he referred to these fellow workers by their first names, but they called him Mr. Truman.

Prior to each new employee’s first day on the job, Mrs. McBee provided a ring-bound notebook titled
Standards and Practices,
which she herself had composed and assembled. Woe be to the benighted soul who did not memorize its contents and perform always according to its directions.

The library floor was walnut, stained a dark warm reddish-brown. Here the Persian carpets were antiques that appreciated in value far faster than the blue-chip stocks of the country’s finest companies.

Club chairs in comfortable seating arrangements alternated with mazes of mahogany shelves that held over thirty-six thousand volumes. Some of the books were shelved on a second level served by a six-foot-wide catwalk that could be reached by an open staircase with an elaborate gilded-iron railing.

If you didn’t look up at the ceiling to help you define the true size of the enormous chamber, you might succumb to the illusion that it went on forever. Maybe it did. Anything seemed possible here.

The center of the ceiling featured a stained-glass dome thirty-two feet in diameter. The deep colors of the glass—crimson, emerald, burnt yellow, sapphire—so completely filtered natural light even on a bright day that the books were at no risk of sustaining sun damage.

Ethan’s Uncle Joe—who’d served as a surrogate dad when Ethan’s real father had been too drunk to handle the job—had been a truck driver for a regional bakery. He’d delivered breads and pastries to supermarkets and restaurants, six days a week, eight hours a day. Most of the time, Joe had held down a second job as a night janitor, three days a week.

In his best five years put together, Uncle Joe hadn’t made enough to equal the cost of this stained-glass dome.

When he’d first begun to earn a policeman’s pay, Ethan had felt rich. Compared to Joe, he had been raking in big dough.

His total income from sixteen years with the LAPD wouldn’t have paid the cost of this one room.

“Should’ve been a movie star,” he said as he entered the library to return
Lord Jim
to the shelf from which he’d gotten it.

Every volume in the collection had been arranged in alphabetical order, by author. A third were bound in leather; the rest were regular editions. A significant number were rare, and valuable.

The Face had read none of them.

More than two-thirds of the collection had come with the house. At her employer’s instructions, once each month, Mrs. McBee purchased the most talked-about and critically acclaimed current novels and volumes of nonfiction, which were at once catalogued and added to the library.

These new books were acquired for the sole purpose of display. They impressed houseguests, dinner guests, and other visitors with the breadth of Channing Manheim’s intellectual interests.

When asked for his opinion of any book, the Face elicited the visitor’s judgment first, then agreed with it in such a charming fashion that he seemed both erudite and every bit a kindred spirit.

As Ethan slid
Lord Jim
onto a shelf between two other Conrad titles, a small reedy voice behind him said, “Is there magic in it?”

Turning, he discovered ten-year-old Aelfric Manheim all but swallowed alive by one of the larger armchairs.

According to Laura Moonves, Aelfric (pronounced
elfrick
) was an Old English word meaning “elf-ruled” or “ruled by elves,” which had first been used to describe wise and clever actions, but had in time come to refer to those who acted wisely and cleverly.

Aelfric.

The boy’s mother—Fredericka “Freddie” Nielander—a supermodel who had married and divorced the Face all in one year, had read at least three books in her life.
The Lord of the Rings
trilogy. In fact she had read them repeatedly.

She had been prepared to name the boy Frodo. Fortunately, or not, one month before Freddie’s due date, her best girlfriend, an actress, had discovered the name Aelfric in the script for a cheesy fantasy film in which she had agreed to play a three-breasted Amazon alchemist.

If Freddie’s friend had landed a supporting role in
The Silence of the Lambs,
Aelfric would probably now be Hannibal Manheim.

The boy preferred to be called Fric, and no one but his mother insisted on using his full name. Fortunately, or not, she wasn’t around much to torture him with it.

Reliable scuttlebutt had it that Freddie had not seen Fric in over seventeen months. Even the career of an aging supermodel could be demanding.

“Is there magic in what?” Ethan asked.

“That book you just put away.”

“Magic of a sort, but probably not the kind of magic you mean.”

“This one has a shitload of magic in it,” Fric said, displaying a paperback with dragons and wizards on the cover.

“Is that advisable language for a wise and clever person?” Ethan asked.

“Heck, all my old man’s friends in the biz talk worse stuff than
shitload
. So does my old man.”

“Not when he knows you’re around.”

Fric cocked his head. “Are you calling my dad a hypocrite?”

“If I ever call your dad such a thing, I’ll cut my tongue out.”

“The evil wizard in this book would use it in a potion. One of his most difficult tasks is to find the tongue of an honest man.”

“What makes you think I’m honest?”

“Get real. You’ve got a triple shitload of honesty.”

“What’re you going to do if Mrs. McBee hears you using words like that?”

“She’s somewhere else.”

“Oh, she is?” Ethan asked, suggesting that he knew something regarding Mrs. McBee’s current whereabouts that would make the boy wish he’d been more discreet.

Unable to repress a guilty expression, Fric sat up straight and surveyed the library.

The boy was small for his age, and thin. At times, glimpsed from a distance as he walked along one of the vast halls or across a room scaled for kings and their entourages, he seemed almost wispy.

“I think she has secret passages,” Fric whispered. “You know, pathways in the walls.”

“Mrs. McBee?”

The boy nodded. “We’ve lived here six years, but she’s been here
forever
.”

Mrs. McBee and Mr. McBee—both in their middle fifties—had been employed by the previous owner of the property and had stayed on at the request of the Face.

“It’s hard to picture Mrs. McBee skulking about in the walls,” said Ethan. “She’s not exactly a dastardly sort.”

“But if she
was
dastardly,” Fric said hopefully, “things would be more interesting around here.”

Unlike his father’s golden locks, which with a shake of the head always fell perfectly into place, Fric’s brown mop achieved perpetual disarray. Here was hair that foiled brushes and broke good combs.

Fric might grow into his looks and prove equal to his pedigree, but currently he appeared to be an average ten-year-old boy.

“Why aren’t you in class?” Ethan wondered.

“You an atheist or something? Don’t you know it’s the week before Christmas? Even home-schooled Hollywood brats get a break.”

A cadre of tutors visited five days a week. The private school that Fric attended for a while had not proved to be a suitable environment for him.

With the famous Channing Manheim for a father, with the famous and
notorious
Freddie Nielander for a mother, Fric became an object of envy and ridicule even among the children of other celebrities. Being the skinny son of a buffed star adored for heroic roles also made him a figure of fun to crueler kids. The severity of his asthma further argued for schooling at home, in a controlled environment.

“Have any idea what you’ll get Christmas morning?” Ethan asked.

“Yeah. I had to submit my list to Mrs. McBee by December fifth. I told her not to bother wrapping the stuff, but she will. She always does. She says it’s not Christmas morning without
some
mystery.”

“I’d have to agree with that.”

The boy shrugged, and slumped in his chair again.

Although the Face was currently on location for a film, he would return from Florida the day before Christmas.

“It’ll be good to have your dad home for the holidays. You guys have any special plans once he gets back?”

The boy shrugged again, attempting to convey lack of knowledge or indifference, but instead—and unwittingly—revealing a misery that made Ethan feel uncharacteristically helpless.

Fric had inherited luminous green eyes to match his mother’s. In the singular depths of those eyes, enough could be read about the boy’s loneliness to fill a library shelf or two.

“Well,” Ethan said, “maybe Christmas morning this year you’ll have a couple surprises.”

Sitting forward in his chair, eager for the sense of mystery that he had so recently dismissed as unimportant, Fric said, “What—you heard something?”

“If I heard something, which I’m not saying I did or didn’t, I couldn’t tell you what I heard, assuming I heard anything at all, and still keep the surprise a surprise, by which I don’t mean to imply that there is a surprise or that there isn’t one.”

The boy stared in silence for a moment. “Now you don’t sound cop honest, you sound like the head of a studio.”

“You know what heads of studios sound like, huh?”

“They come around here sometimes,” the boy said in a tone of worldly wisdom. “I recognize their rap.”