The Murderer's Daughter (24 page)

T
he three hundred and eighty miles between L.A. and Berkeley could be covered in one adrenalized day. But between having to stick to speed limits and bathroom and food breaks, Grace figured she wouldn't arrive until late afternoon or early evening.

Too late to learn anything about Alamo Adjustments.

There was also the fatigue factor to consider: A pumped-up sympathetic nervous system would mask her body's natural tendency to slow down. She wouldn't be at her best.

So a two-day trip it would be, taking the inland route and spending the night near the halfway mark—Fresno or its environs. Up early tomorrow, she'd arrive at the university town well before noon, have plenty of time to find her bearings.

She drove to a 7-Eleven, stocked up on more snacks, and sat in the parking lot reviewing the mental ledger she'd already gone over twice after deciding to take the trip.

If Mr. Beef was still looking for her—quite likely—being away from her home and her office would make her vulnerable to break-ins.

On the other hand, there was nothing in either location that could benefit the enemy and stuff was replaceable.

She wasn't.

Then there was the matter of payoff: Merely checking out a neighborhood where a defunct business once sat could very well prove futile. Worse, she'd come up empty on Alamo Adjustments and if the enemy lived nearby, risk giving herself away.

The enemy; time to put a face on her quarry.

She imagined him: a tall, glib, probably still attractive man of thirty-seven or thirty-eight. A charmer with secrets worth killing for and, if he wasn't as smart as he thought he was, possibly a criminal record.

If he
was
smart, he'd coasted for over two decades, maybe living a respectable life but definitely wreaking havoc on the sly.

If he'd attained public respectability, his secrets were well worth killing for.

Grace had passed
through Santa Barbara, was nearing Solvang, still with no word from Wayne. He'd said to give him two or three days but she figured that was just a hedge and her faith in his follow-through diminished with each freeway exit. Because let's face it, it was a simple matter of calling the right person. Either he could or he couldn't, would or wouldn't.

She turned up the music, checked the tripometer. Two hundred ninety miles to go at sixty-five per. Her foot itched to exert more force on the gas but she'd already spotted three highway patrol cars. Still, she was feeling energized, chipper, maybe she would pull off a one-day trek. Find an appropriately bland business hotel in the good part of Oakland that bordered Berkeley, spend a quiet night, be up early to hunt.

As she neared Lompoc, Wayne called.

Grace said, “You found something.”

“Of a fashion.”

“I'm listening.”

“Hey,” he said, suddenly jocular. “ 'S great to hear from my favorite niece…meetings all day? Tsk, I sympathize, dear…sure, that would be great, let me write it down…the Red Heifer…Santa Monica…six-ish work for you?”

Surprised by someone entering his office? Fast on the uptake; Grace was glad she had him on her side.

The ride back was two and a half hours, minimum, longer if rush-hour traffic got ugly. But even with that, plenty of squeeze room.

She said, “See you soon, Uncle Wayne.”

He hung up without laughing.

The restaurant was
old-school: commodious vaulted dining room, green-flocked wallpaper, dim lighting, olive leather booths, noise-damping faux-Persian carpeting. The art was a mix of Flemish still-life prints, goofy cartoons about wine, and a huge butcher's chart to the left of the bar that segmented a pitifully oblivious steer into steaks, chops, and roasts.

Grace arrived ten minutes early but Wayne was already there, half his rotund form visible, the rest hidden by the shadows of a remote corner booth. Despite brisk dinner business, the banquette next to his was unoccupied. A martini in which three toothpicked olives floated looked untouched. He nibbled on bread, barely acknowledged Grace as she slid in beside him.

Today he was dressed to impress, in a soft-shouldered tan suit, a pale-orange shirt, and the same aggressive blue tie as in his official headshot. He remained stoic but took Grace's hand and gave it a brief squeeze.

“Uncle,” she said. “Thanks for taking the time.”

He smiled weakly. “Family is family.”

A white-jacketed waiter came over. “Still no food, Mr. Knutsen?”

“Nope, just drinks, Xavier.” Turning to Grace: “Katie?”

Grace said, “A Coke, Uncle Wayne.”

“Coming up,” said the waiter. Wayne pressed a bill into his hand. The waiter's eyes rounded. “You already gave me, sir.”

“Consider it a bonus, Xavier.”

“Thank you so much.” He scurried off.

Grace said, “Bonus for the empty booth next door?”

Wayne stared at her, sighed, turned away and pretended to study a framed drawing of a dead rabbit dangling amid fruit, flowers, and herbs.

Grace's soda arrived, borne by a racewalking Xavier. She sipped. Wayne didn't touch his martini. She waited as he worked his way through the entire basket of bread. Munching and flicking crumbs from his sleeve, he muttered, “Last thing I need, carbs.”

Xavier jogged over with a fresh basket, filled water glasses, asked if everything was okay.

“Perfect,” said Wayne.

When they were alone again, Grace said, “You're a regular.”

“I try to get here when I'm on the Westside. I live in San Marino.”

He'd driven cross-town in serious traffic, intent on keeping this away from his home base. But he
was
comfortable enough to show her to the waiter. So this was a place he used for pleasure, not business.

Grace said, “Well, I appreciate your taking the time—”

“But of course, you're my client.” He reached for his martini, took a long swallow, ate one of the olives. Chewing more than was necessary, he looked around the room, sat inert for another half a minute, reached into an inner suit pocket and drew out an envelope.

Small packet, something that might be used to mail back an RSVP. Grace concealed her disappointment. She'd hoped for a meaty packet of confidential documents.

Wayne dropped his hand and handed her the envelope under the table. The damn thing was light enough to be empty.

A hundred-thirty-mile backtrack for…?

He said, “Put it away, you can examine it later.”

“Of course. That was quick. Impressive, thanks.”

“I wish I could attribute it to my virtue but quite the opposite.”

Puzzled, Grace studied him.

He said, “I acquired it through lack of virtue, dear. More than that, sin. Of the deadly variety.”

Grace scrolled through the classic septet.

“Greed,” she said.

Wayne rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. “You always were quick, Dr. Blades. Yes, the old filth and lucre. Speaking of iniquity, I couldn't find anything on those Fortress nuts. Including court records.”

Grace said, “There was no prosecution because everyone died in the shoot-out.”

He fished out another olive. “And you know that because…”

She realized she didn't know. One of Sophia's old jokes came to mind:
Assume means make an ass out of u and me.

Grace frowned.

Wayne said, “I raise the issue because one maniac leader and three acolytes doesn't make for much of a cult.”

She shrugged, still warding off shame at her muddled thinking.

Wayne said, “On the other hand, perhaps it was a mini-cult.”

The two of them laughed. Hard to say who was straining harder for levity.

Grace drank soda. Wayne finished his martini and waved for another. After Xavier delivered it, she said, “If there were others, why weren't they arrested? Why wasn't anyone else mentioned in the article?”

“Why, indeed, Grace, so you're probably right. What surprised me, though, was the utter lack of coverage after the shoot-out. Generally, the press loves that kind of thing—psychological autopsies and such.” Another finger rub.

Grace said, “Someone had the clout to keep it quiet?”

“The possibility comes to mind.”

Grace thought about that. “Makes sense—maybe to get a family member off the hook. But not Roi, he was a prison guard, no connection. So one or more of the women.”

“My thoughts exactly,” said Wayne. “And my mind conjured a rich, stupid girl probably with drug issues. I see it all the time, working with wills and trusts.”

Another long swallow. “The implication, of course, is dire, Grace.”

“More rocks to turn over.”

He turned and stared. “Rocks that don't want to be turned over.”

Grace shrugged. “On the
other
other hand, perhaps there were only four of them and that made them puny media-fodder in the post-Manson-and-Jim-Jones age.”

“Anything's possible,” said Wayne. “The hell of it is we simply don't know, do we, dear?”

Grace didn't answer.

He returned to his drink, stirring, staring into a tiny crystalline universe. “You step back into my life and I'm more anxious than I've been in a long time.”

“I'm sorry—”

“Not your fault, it is what it is—sorry, I shouldn't have said that.”

Grace touched his hand. “Wayne, I deeply appreciate everything you're doing but there's no need for concern. All I need is information.”

He laughed. “There you go, I feel
so
much better knowing you're off tilting at who-knows-what.”

Grace said, “My contacting you proves I'll be okay.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Not only am I self-protective, I know how to ask for help.”

He scowled, drank. “I suppose I appreciate it.”

“Appreciate what?”

“Your coming to me. Because Lord knows I could've done a helluva lot more back when you were a kid.”

“Wayne, of all the people—”

He waved her off. “What did I really do for you other than delegate responsibility?”

“Ramona was—”

“The best alternative, granted. But as soon as I punted to her, I washed my hands. Of you, of everyone, of the entire system. Sure, I can rationalize it as burnout, but what does that say about my character?”

“I think your character is beyond—”

“When Ramona called to tell me she thought your IQ was through the roof, I kissed her off, darling. How did I know she'd take care of it optimally? How would it have hurt me to spend some time researching curricula? And please don't tell me everything worked out fine. The issue isn't outcome, Grace, it's process.”

Grace exerted gentle pressure on his hand. His skin seemed to ping, as if electrified. “Please, Wayne, do not excoriate yourself. You and Ramona were the only people in the system who made a difference. A significant difference.”

“Whatever…so what did I sell out for? Another system equally amoral—worse than amoral, Grace. Venal, I'm an extremely well-paid attack dog.” He finished the second martini. Smiled. “Of course I do get to wear Brioni.”

Xavier started from across the room. Wayne shooed him away. “Grace, please reconsider this quest of yours. There has to be a better way.”

Grace squeezed his fingers. “I'm no martyr, Wayne, but there's really no choice, we both know that knowledge is power.”

Dropping her hand into her purse, she ran a fingertip against the small envelope.

The resulting sound—doll's nails on a toy chalkboard—caused Wayne to jump. He pulled his hand away from Grace's. “Look at it after I leave, Grace. And please, not here.”

“Absolutely, Wayne. And I swear, you'll never be connected to this.”

“Well…,” he said. Instead of finishing the sentence he slid clumsily out of the booth. “Pressing social event in Pasadena at eight and I'm sure you'd rather be…doing what it is you plan to do, rather than jawing uselessly with an old fart.”