Burn (2 page)

“Lifestyles of the rich and famous, ” he mused.

Andrew said, “Mm.”

“Early in the year for this stuff, though. Dry summer.”

“That's what they're saying.”

“Sorry again for the drop-in, Mr. Borland.” The stranger grinned easily and extended a palm. “I came by to see you yesterday, but you weren't around.”

Mr. Borland. Andrew smiled and decided to let that one hang for now. He didn't explain to the stranger that he was not his jackass cousin-in-law, Lane, who owned the beach house. He reached to meet the man's grip, which felt calloused and solid.

“Detective, is it?”

The guy cocked his head without losing the grin. He watched Andrew from behind the shades. “You must be reading those papers.”

“When I can find where they landed. Have you been in the papers?”

“Oh, I seem to be a regular celebrity lately.”

“That must be it, ” Andrew said. “I probably saw your picture somewhere.”

The detective nodded along, but Andrew could tell he wasn't buying it. Especially when the cop leaned forward and said, “Just between you and me, what really gave me away?”

Andrew thought:
I started it.
He shielded sun with his hand, starting over with the boots and working his way up.

“Put it this way, ” he said. “Are you much of a drinker?”

The detective—who had yet to state his business, Andrew couldn't help but note—seemed happy enough to play along. “I've been known to rest my feet on a rail from time to time.”

“You know how when you're talking to a woman at a bar, one of the first things she notices is that spot where the wedding ring used to be on your left hand there?”

Now the detective looked at the hand he'd used to deliver the newspaper. His grin widened. “I do.”

“For what it's worth, ” Andrew told him, “those sweat stains on your shirt say ‘shoulder holster’ to me.”

The detective barked out a laugh that seemed to come back to them from beneath the deck. Without further chitchat, he folded open the jacket, reached inside, and said, “Not bad. Maybe you should have one of these.”

Andrew set the newspaper aside and accepted the wallet. He flipped it open, checked the shield and ID.

Adrian Timms, LAPD. Robbery-Homicide Division. When Andrew handed the wallet back, Timms finally took off the shades and slipped them into his shirt pocket. His eyes seemed friendly, direct. Andrew got the feeling they didn't miss much.

“Mind if I sit down?”

“Help yourself.” Andrew held up his coffee mug. “I've got a pot on in the house.”

“Too hot for coffee, but thanks. I don't want to take much of your time.”

“I'm not really on a tight schedule, ” Andrew said. “What brings you to the beach, Detective?”

Timms took the nearest sling chair, propped a boot across his knee, and draped the jacket over it. “I'm investigating this Gregor Tavlin business you've probably been hearing about.”

Andrew was not aware of any Gregor Tavlin business. He hadn't really looked at the newspaper in a couple of weeks. Lane and Caroline had a television at the beach house, but he rarely turned it on. And except for the daily Hot Spot, he mostly just kept the radio around for company.

“No kidding? That's some business.”

“Yes, I guess it is.”

“Look, ” Andrew finally said. “I have a confession to make.”

“Now there's something I don't hear every day.”

He ran over with wit, this cop. Andrew gestured toward the house. “Lane Borland is my cousin's husband. I just moved to town a couple months ago. Lane owns the house. They don't use the place much, so I get a view of the ocean while I pretend to be hunting for my own shower and toilet.”

The truth: He probably should have packed up and
moved on weeks ago. He knew better than to let himself get attached to the place, but he couldn't seem to help it.

Andrew liked the view of sand and water. He liked the coastline at dusk, the soft lap of the surf at night. He liked making coffee before sunrise, taking a hot mug out to the deck, and waiting for the salty mists to clear.

Lately, he'd grown to find something reassuring about the sight of a new horizon line.

He'd grown to like measuring out the days according to the rhythm of the tides.

Andrew didn't bother telling the detective how much he disliked the philandering greaseball his cousin Caroline had married, or how fiercely Lane Borland opposed the idea of Andrew anywhere near his property.

Lane, a talent manager who specialized in spokesmodels, had bought the beach house during a dip in the real estate market last year. He'd claimed it was a resale investment until Caroline had caught him here celebrating their anniversary with a buxom twenty-two-year-old May belline girl.

Caroline had offered her husband two options: get rid of the place, or hire a lawyer and get ready to pay up. Lane had caved without argument at the time, though he'd been citing soft real estate numbers ever since. He blamed the stock market.

But Andrew's kid cousin was no dummy, despite her inexplicable taste in men. Which meant that until Lane decided to stop dragging his feet and give up his million-dollar whoopie pad, Andrew had a fantastic rent-free view of the Pacific.

He was happy to help.

“I'll be honest, ” Detective Timms said. “That explains a thing or two.”

“Oh?”

“I was thinking you didn't seem to be from around here.”

It appeared to be Andrew's turn. “What gave me away?”

The detective started with Andrew's sandals and worked his way up from there.

“The tan, for starters, ” he said. “No offense, but you're a little on the pale side for a fellow who spends mornings on a sundeck.”

Andrew held up the tube of SPF 60 he generally kept with him when he planned to be outside for any length of time. “These rays you've got out here are hell on scar tissue.”

As if he'd been granted permission, the detective now nodded toward the first thing most people noticed about Andrew's face.

“I've been wondering what you tangled with, ” he admitted. “Left a little mark.”

Andrew supposed the detective was being polite. The worst of the scars was thick as a pencil and ran half the length of his jawline. The jagged hook at the corner of his eye had been quickest to heal; its sibling, which trailed from the opposite corner of his mouth, had puckered as it sealed, leaving him with a permanent smirk. Caroline told him it looked cute.
Kind of aw-shucksy,
she said. Andrew thought it looked like he'd shaved with a Cuisinart.

“It was a concrete abutment, ” he lied. “The car looked worse.”

Timms gave a low whistle.

“Probably should have kept my feet on that bar rail, ” Andrew said. “Gas pedal turned out to be a bad idea.”

“Hindsight's always twenty-twenty.”

“So they say.”

“I'm sorry, ” the detective said. “What did you say your name was, again?”

“I didn't. It's Andrew. I can get you Lane's office number if you need to talk to him. I think I've got it in the house somewhere.”

“Don't bother, I've already got it, ” Timms said. “I was just in the neighborhood, thought I'd try to catch him at home.”

Andrew didn't ask the detective what had led him to assume he might find Lane at the beach house on a weekday morning. He planned to ask Lane that question personally. With any luck, he'd be forced to choke the answer out of the little weasel.

“But as long as I'm here, maybe you can save me some shoe leather, ” Timms said. “David Lomax is the person I'm actually looking for. He's a hard guy to find lately. We were told he might have stayed here recently. Have you spoken with him?”

“Lomax?”

The detective nodded. “David. I don't suppose you've seen him around.”

Andrew shook his head and told the truth. “Never even heard of him.”

“I see.” Timms gathered up his jacket and stood. “Thanks for your time. I'll get out of your hair, give your cousin a call. Sorry again for the bother.”

“Cousin-in-law. And it's no bother. Hope you track down your guy.”

“That makes two of us.”

Timms stuck out his hand again, and Andrew shook it. He was about to wish the detective luck, maybe say something conciliatory about the heat, when he noticed Timms glancing off toward the water. The detective seemed to be considering something.

“Before I go, ” he said, “mind if I ask one more question?”

“Not at all.”

“Don't look now. But have you noticed the guy with the turned-up visor over there? Scooting the metal detector around that pile of driftwood. Hundred yards out.”

Casually, Andrew moved his gaze down the beach.

“You mean the guy pointing the rocket launcher at us?”

“Looks like about a 400-millimeter zoom lens to me, ” Timms said. “Just so you know, he's been sneaking peeks over this way ever since I got here.”

Andrew waited before glancing toward the guy with the camera again. The guy had turned his back to the house. He swept the metal detector's circular antenna coil from side to side over the sand a few feet in front of him.

It wasn't easy to be sure from this distance, but Andrew didn't think he'd ever seen the person before. He watched the guy pretend to inspect a fist-sized stalk of dried kelp. He thought:
This might not be my day.

“I'm really starting to wish these pikers would update their maps, ” he said, spinning out the first thing that came to mind.

Timms lifted an eyebrow.

“You know who I'm talking about? I see them sitting around in lawn chairs all the time. I guess they sell 'em to the tourists?”

“Ah, ” Timms said. “Homes of the Stars.”

“Right, right.” Andrew gestured toward the house again. “My cousin tells me a Baldwin used to own the place before Lane bought it. That's the third guy with a camera since I've been here.”

This time, when the detective laughed, the whole deck seemed to vibrate beneath Andrew's chair. Timms
fished his sunglasses out of his shirt pocket and put them on again.

“It's a little unnerving, ” Andrew said.

“Well, ” said Timms. “In that case, I can only think of one thing to tell you.”

“What's that?”

“Welcome to Los Angeles, Mr. Kindler.”

Andrew laughed politely. He and Timms exchanged final pleasantries. With that, the detective strolled back across the deck, remembering the top step as he descended the stairs.

For a long time after he'd gone, Andrew stayed out on the deck, listening to the radio. He pondered the smoke banks blotting the pale blue sky above the Santa Monica Mountains.

Over the sound of the radio, Andrew could hear young kids kicking a ball around behind the tall privacy fence encircling the adjacent property. Three long blonde rollerbladers in thong tankinis threaded joggers on the strip. Across the busy highway, atop the rail-lined cliffs, the tall palms along Ocean Avenue hung their fronds in the heat.

By the time the guy with the beachcombing rig had wandered out of view, Andrew had decided only two things for sure.

He was out of ideas.

And he was absolutely positive that he'd never told the big detective with the cowboy boots his last name.

AFTER
the detective left, Andrew stayed out on the deck and debated his first item of business for almost an hour. At a quarter past ten, he finally gave up, collected the newspaper, tossed the tube of sunblock into his empty coffee mug, and gathered up the radio.

He went inside long enough to throw on a shirt and a clean pair of chinos. When he returned to the deck, Andrew stood at the rail for a minute. He twirled his car keys on his finger as he looked out over the water. Then he turned away and headed down the stairs. He made a point of leaving the sliding glass door to the house unlocked behind him.

Despite heavy mid-morning traffic, Andrew made it to the customer counter at the Cal Fed branch on 5th Street and Santa Monica Boulevard in a little under ten minutes. He showed his key, along with the bogus ID he'd used to reserve a safety-deposit box a few days after
he'd arrived in Los Angeles. The teller smiled and showed him to a private access room. Andrew made a withdrawal, which he tucked into his waistband beneath his shirt. Then he left the bank and drove home.

Andrew paid eight dollars to park in the public lot a quarter mile up the beach. He walked the distance back to the house at a leisurely pace. At the bottom of the stairs to the deck, he took off his sandals and headed up quietly on the balls of his feet.

The first thing he noted as he reached the landing was the metal detector leaning against the side of the house. That, and the two-foot gap between the sliding screen and the jamb.

Andrew took a moment, then reached under his shirt.

When he slid the screen open the rest of the way and stepped inside, the beachcomber looked up from the breakfast bar, where he'd been rummaging through a stack of utility bills. Wisps of thinning hair floated above the brim of the guy's sun visor in breeze-blown question marks. His eyes widened, and he opened his mouth, but he didn't make a sound.

“Morning, ” Andrew said.

The guy said, “Oh.”

“Listen, help me out, I'm new to the area. Do people shoot trespassers around here?”

The guy didn't answer. He didn't even appear to breathe. He stood like a lamppost with lips, palms hovering six inches above the countertop. The gun in Andrew's hand seemed to hold his attention.

“I can explain, ” he finally said. “I … okay. I can explain.”

“Great.” Andrew closed the distance between them
and performed a quick one-handed frisk: armpits and waistband. Clean. “I'm all ears.”

The guy opened his mouth and closed it again. Andrew noticed the camera sitting on one of the barstools. While he waited for the guy to get his story in order, he walked over, picked up the camera, tilted the big lens toward the guy, and snapped off a couple of exposures.

“Did you want to do the honors?”

The guy exhaled. “You've got the gun.”

“Good point.”

Andrew popped the back of the camera and stripped out the film in long glossy coils. When he was finished, he stepped back to the open door, gripped the camera by the lens, and sent it flying with a hard underhanded toss. The camera made a lazy, tumbling arc over the deck and disappeared beyond the rail.