Coming Home (The Santa Monica Trilogy Book 2) (7 page)

The only thing she knew for certain was that she wasn’t about to squander the gift of a second chance. She trusted Logan. And that in itself was amazing. After her disastrous relationship with Harry, she thought she’d never trust another man again.

But something about Logan made her want to take the risk. Something that was new, that hadn’t been there back when they were in college and moving through life with the jaunty self-assurance of untried youth.

It was the way that he watched her now, as if she held the answer to some crucial existential question. The way he touched her, with tremendous care, tenderness, even reverence. The way he listened to her, as if tuning in to something beyond mere spoken words.

Her grandmother was still looking at her, waiting for a response. “I don’t know,” Grace said. “Maybe.”

“Good.” Ruth nodded. “I always liked him. You should bring him by sometime.”

Grace made a noncommittal sound.

They ate in silence for several more minutes before Ruth said, “I’ve been thinking about selling the house.”

Grace choked on her water. “Really?”

“Maybe getting something smaller. Without stairs.”

Since her surgery, Ruth had moved to the ground floor, into what had previously served as her husband’s study. Gone were the deep armchairs that smelled of cigar smoke, the massive mahogany desk, the bronze statue of a blindfolded Lady Justice bearing scales and a sword. In their place stood a hospital bed, a La-Z-Boy power recliner, and a nightstand crowded with pill bottles. The en-suite bathroom had been fitted with grab bars and an emergency alarm.

“Sounds reasonable.”

“This place is just too big,” Ruth continued, as if she needed to convince herself as well as Grace. “It has been for a while. At least when your grandfather was alive, we did plenty of entertaining.”

“I remember.”

“A lot of the old crowd is gone now.” She sighed. “And I’m not exactly in any condition to entertain.”

“You’ll get there. A few more months of physical therapy, and you’ll be good as new.”

“I don’t know, Grace. I’d like to think you’re right, but—” She broke off. “It’s hard, with your grandfather gone.”

“Yes. But you’ve got Maria. And you’ve got me.”

“You’re right. I don’t know what I’d do without Maria. But you have your own life, Grace. You need to start living it again.”

“I thought I was.”

“You’re not getting any younger, you know. It’s past time you started thinking about children.”

Grace blinked.
Children?
She and Logan weren’t even having sex yet, let alone planning a family. And that was assuming Logan even wanted kids. Or a long-term relationship, for that matter. With her.

The idea that he might not stick around for it to even become an issue had her swallowing the lump in her throat and changing the subject. “If you want to sell the house, this is definitely the time. I hear the place down the street is going for $6.5 million.”

“I don’t want you to feel like I’m pushing you out.”

“Don’t worry. You do what’s best for you, and I’ll figure things out for myself.”

“I don’t need to sell the house to get something smaller. I mean, I could just leave it in the trust for you, if you wanted it.”

The same trust that had paid for Grace’s college and medical school education, leaving her entirely debt free—in stark contrast to many of her classmates and colleagues. As rigid and judgmental as her grandparents had been while she was growing up, Grace had to admit they were certainly generous in providing for her material well-being.

But she was no longer a helpless child, or a student dependent on the largesse of her family to cover her tuition. In a few short weeks, she would be embarking on a career as an attending psychiatrist. It wouldn’t make her wealthy, but it would certainly enable her to support herself.

As for the house, she had mixed feelings. Yes, she’d grown up here. But her childhood memories weren’t the happiest. Nothing terrible, just...lonely.

Her grandfather had been a cold, remote figure with little time or patience for a curious and often mischievous child. Her grandmother had probably been worried that Grace would commit the same mistakes her mother had, like running off to marry the first inappropriate boy who paid her the least bit of attention. As a result, she kept a tight rein on Grace’s every move. The only person who had treated Grace with any warmth was Maria. The housekeeper had tolerated Grace’s presence underfoot, even when it would have been easier to just shoo her out of the kitchen. Instead, she had put Grace to work rolling out flour tortillas and beating the eggs for flan. If not for Maria, Grace didn’t know how she would have survived growing up in such a repressive environment.

Was it any wonder that she felt ambivalent about moving back? Through adult eyes, she could appreciate the value of the property, the beautiful architectural accents like hand-carved mahogany banisters and elegant crown molding. But it was hard to shake off the childhood impressions that lurked in every dark corner.

She looked forward each morning to escaping the house. The exercise was just a side benefit. The main goal was simply to get away and let loose. To feel the warmth of the sun on her face and the breeze in her hair. To have time to herself, when she could pick her own pace and run where she liked, free from whatever expectations her grandmother or anyone else had of her.

Irrational feelings, she recognized that. A house was just a house. Her grandfather was gone. And her grandmother was no longer the disapproving figure of Grace’s childhood, but a frail, sometimes cranky old woman who seemed bent on making peace.

She glanced at her grandmother’s hopeful expression.

“I appreciate the offer,” she said. “Can I think about it?”

“Doing okay?” Logan asked.

They had been climbing the dirt trail toward Temescal Ridge for the past forty minutes, the silence broken only by their heavy breathing and the chatter of other hikers along the way.

Grace swept aside strands of hair that stuck to her forehead. “Fine. I’d forgotten how much of a workout this is.”

“Skull Rock is up ahead. Good place to take a break, if you want.”

Taking a break meant conversation, and she wasn’t sure she was ready for that. She’d had to sneak out the back way this morning, cutting across the golf course, in order to avoid a few straggling reporters who were still staking out the front of the house. Thankfully Logan hadn’t pressed her on why she’d asked him to pick her up from the country club. Nor had he commented on the dark circles beneath her eyes. But she had felt his assessing gaze several times during the drive up Sunset Boulevard, and again as they pulled into the parking lot.

She paused long enough to drink some water before slipping the bottle back into her waist pack. “Let’s keep going. Unless you need a break?”

He grinned. “You underestimate my stamina.”

She flushed, glad for distraction of a family with several children trooping past them.

It wasn’t until they began their descent from the summit that Logan spoke again. “Harry’s suicide is all over the news this morning.”

“I know.” Grace shaded her eyes, wishing she hadn’t forgotten her baseball cap at home. There had been sufficient tree cover on the way up, but this last part of the loop was all open trail, surrounded by mountain brush baked brown by the sun. She took a few moments to admire the panorama of blue-gray water and oceanfront stretching all the way from Malibu to Palos Verdes.

Logan ignored the view, focusing instead on her. “They’re saying he killed himself because he had something to hide.”

“He was bipolar, Logan. This wasn’t the first time he tried to commit suicide.”

“Yes, but this time he succeeded. It’s raised a lot of questions about who knew what, when.”

She started walking again. “So?”

“It doesn’t bother you?” He clambered after her. “That your name is being raked through the mud, right along with his?”

Her nostrils flared. “Does it bother
you
?”

“Hell, yes.”

“Then ignore it. Turn off the TV. Stop reading the papers. The press is fickle. They’ll glom onto the next big story as soon as some d-list celebrity releases a sex video or gets busted for DUI.”

“I don’t see how you can be so blasé about it.”

“You forget I’ve been through this before.”

He sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“Life goes on, Logan.”

“Yes.” He offered her a hand over an uneven rock formation. “I can call my sister Angie, if you want. She’s a lawyer. Maybe she’ll have some ideas on how to make it all go away sooner.”

“I know you mean well, Logan. But trust me on this. The best thing to do is to simply ignore it.”

###

As Logan turned onto La Mesa, Grace tensed. An unmarked van was parked at the corner. Several houses down, two men in jeans and hoodies appeared to be aiming cameras with telephoto lens through a gap in the foliage, angling toward her grandmother’s house.

“Stop,” Grace said. “Let me out here.”

He pulled up to the curb and killed the motor. “What’s going on?”

“Paparazzi. No, don’t look. Can I borrow your hat?”

“It’s sweaty.”

“That’s fine.”

He passed her the baseball cap and reached to undo his seatbelt.

Grace placed a staying hand on his arm. “Don’t.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“It’ll be better if you don’t.” She hesitated, then leaned over the console and brushed his lips with hers. “Thanks for today.”

She slipped out of the SUV, donned his baseball cap, and readjusted her dark glasses. Head down, she made a beeline for the front gates. The paps must have noticed, because in the two seconds it took to key in the code, they converged on her, cameras clicking.

“Hey Grace, wait up!”

The gates swung open.

“Why did Harry call you before he hanged himself? Did you know he was going to do it?”

She flinched, nearly dropping the keys she’d extracted from her waist pack. But she managed to keep moving.

“What did you tell his mother?”

Fifteen feet to the front door.

“Why did you leave New York, Grace?”

The door handle turned, and she stepped inside.

“How much did you get in the divorce?”

She glanced back at the men trailing her. “This is private property, fellas, and you’re not invited. You’ve got about twenty seconds before the gates close. After that, I’m calling the police.”

“Come on, Grace, you gotta give us something!”

“Ten seconds.” She watched them scramble to exit before the automatic gates shut. “Enjoy your day, fellas. And thanks for stopping by.”

First thing Monday morning, Grace checked the view from her bedroom window. The street was empty. No, wait, there was a guy standing on the opposite corner, talking on his cell phone. Reporter or not? Hard to tell from this distance.

She let the curtain drop. At least the news vans and slavering hordes were gone.

By the time the doorbell rang, she was showered, dressed, and pouring her second coffee into a travel mug.

Maria found her in the kitchen. “It’s for you, Miss Grace.”

“Who is it?”

Maria offered her the video monitor. “He says FBI.”

Grace flashed on the mental image of the man loitering across the street. Jeans, baseball hat worn backwards, shoulder bag. Didn’t sound like FBI to her.

She glanced at the monitor. It took her a moment to figure out what she was seeing: the close-up of someone’s hand, covering the camera lens. She pressed the intercom button. “Excuse me, who’s there?”

“FBI, ma’am.” The hand disappeared, and an official looking badge appeared in its place. “Special Agent Theodore Wallace here, with Special Agent Carlos Rodriguez. If we could have a moment of your time?”

Not again. She sighed. At least she knew this guy was legit. He’d interviewed her twice already back in New York. The question was, what was he doing here in L.A.?

“I’ll be right out.” She grabbed her coffee, shoulder bag, and keys. “If I’m not home by six-thirty, Maria, please start dinner without me.”

“You be careful, Miss Grace. If you want, I can call your grandma. She can take care of the FBI,
en un dos por tres
.”

Grace smiled, imagining her grandmother facing off with Special Agent Wallace over cucumber sandwiches and tea. When her husband was alive, Ruth King had been a formidable hostess, entertaining politicians, federal prosecutors, and company executives. Grace doubted she’d be cowed by a mere badge. She could just picture the headline:
Walker-wielding Granny Browbeats Men in Black
.

“I’m sure you’re right, Maria. But I’ll be fine.”

She met the agents out front, leaving her car idling in the driveway just inside the gates. “Sorry to keep you waiting, gentlemen. What can I do for you?”

Special Agent Wallace was just as she remembered: six-four, built like a pro basketball player, sporting a dark suit and crew cut. “We just need a few minutes of your time, ma’am.”

“I’d be happy to talk with you, but can we do it some other time?” She glanced at her watch. “My first patient is in half an hour, and I don’t like being late.”

“Certainly, ma’am.” The second agent was a shade shorter and darker, but no less intimidating. “Here’s my card. You give us a call and let us know when.”

She watched them drive off. Across the street, the man she’d noticed earlier was staring straight at her. In place of a phone, he now held a bulky camera.

“Hey, Grace,”
he yelled, as she headed back to her car.
“Say cheese!”

###

“I might need your sister’s help after all,” Grace said. She had just finished with her morning patients, and this was the first opportunity she’d had to call Logan.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.” She crossed the street toward the hospital, sidestepping several slower pedestrians. “I’d just feel better having a lawyer along when I talk to the FBI.”

There was beat of silence. “Where are you?”

“Heading to an ethics lecture at Ronald Reagan.”

“You’re not in any trouble?”

“No. At least, I don’t think so.” She tried to imagine what Special Agent Wallace thought she knew that was important enough for him to fly to L.A. “It’s probably something to do with Harry. I wouldn’t have bothered you, except my lawyer is back in New York. And you did offer...”

“Of course. It’s no bother. Just give me a few minutes to call Angie. When is a good time to reach you?”

“I’m in clinic this afternoon. Should be done by five, five-thirty.” She hesitated. “Thanks, Logan.”

###

Two days later, Grace entered the Federal Building on the corner of Wilshire and Veteran, one of Angie’s senior partners at her side.

“I’d go with you myself,” Angie said over the phone. “But if this is about the Blackwell investigation, you’re better off with Quinn. He’s way more experienced when it comes to securities litigation. Plus he knows how to deal with the feds. You’ll be in good hands.”

A series of phone calls, and it was arranged. Quinn Kirkpatrick turned out to be younger than Grace expected, probably no more than thirty-eight or forty. He ran through the basics.

“Think of this as a deposition,” he told her. “Answer truthfully, but don’t volunteer information. Limit your responses to the specific question asked. If you don’t understand the question, ask for clarification.”

As they proceeded through security screening and waited for Special Agent Rodriguez to escort them upstairs, Grace mentally reviewed the attorney’s additional pointers.

If you don’t know the answer, or can’t remember, do not guess. Just say, “I don’t know” or “I can’t remember.”

They may try to intimidate you, or trick you into saying something that isn’t true. Don’t let them.

We’re going to insist that the interview be recorded. This is for your protection. Since everything you say is admissible in court, we want the record to be as accurate as possible.

Once they dispensed with introductions, declined the offer of coffee or water, and settled down to the interview, things progressed quickly.

Special Agent Wallace walked her through a series of questions regarding her knowledge about Blackwell Securities LLC and the firm’s financial transactions. This was followed by a list of questions she recalled answering back in New York, about her ex-husband’s finances and the terms of their divorce settlement. This time, at least, she wasn’t forced to wade through reams of financial and legal documents that had been seized in the FBI raids following William Blackwell’s arrest.

“After your divorce, did you have any contact with Harry Blackwell?”

She maintained her bland expression. “Yes.”

“What was the nature of that contact?”

“Harry would call, or drop by my work or apartment.”

“What reasons did he give for calling or dropping by?”

“It varied. Sometimes he said he wanted us to get back together. Sometimes he talked about how his treatment was going.”

“You mean his psychiatric treatment?”

“Yes.”

“On these occasions, did he ever discuss Blackwell Securities with you?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Last year, on December 10th.”

“Any other time?”

“No.”

“What happened on December 10th?”

Grace took a deep breath. So far, Wallace had not asked a single new question. Surely he hadn’t flown all the way from New York to revisit the same territory they had already covered multiple times? “Harry showed up—”

“Where?”

“At my apartment, in the West Village.” She paused, to see if Wallace wanted more detail. When he remained silent, she continued. “He showed up and said that his father had just confessed to running a Ponzi scheme.”

“Did Harry say anything else?”

“Yes. He said he called you guys about it.”

“Meaning the FBI.”

“Yes.”

“Go on.”

She folded her hands on the table. “That’s it.”

“He didn’t give any more details?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Did he show you any evidence of this Ponzi scheme?”

“No.”

“Did he tell you he was involved in the scheme?”

“No.”

Wallace leaned forward. “No, he didn’t tell you? Or no, he said he wasn’t involved?”

“He said this was the first he knew of it.”

“Did he contact you at any point after the night of December 10th?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Several times.”

“Can you be more specific?”

She frowned. “No.”

“Try. Was it every day? Twice a week? Twice a month?”

She felt Quinn’s hand on her arm. “Is there a point to this, Agent Wallace?”

Wallace backed off. “When Harry contacted you, did he give you anything?”

“I don’t understand the question.”

“Did he give you money or jewelry?”

“No.”

“What about any documents?”

“No.”

“Any information about where he may have hidden assets?”

“No.”

“When did you last see Harry Blackwell?”

“A couple months ago.”

“In March.”

“Yes.”

“Do you recall the date?”

As if she could ever forget. “March 22nd.”

“What happened?”

She pressed her fingertips against the table, focusing on the texture of the wood against her skin. “He came to my apartment. He was crying.”

She stood in the doorway, blocking his entrance. “You’re off your meds again?”

“No,” Harry said. “I swear.”

“I can’t do this anymore, Harry.”

“Please, Grace.” He pressed the door open with his palm. “I need you. The feds won’t leave us alone. It’s not enough that Dad’s on trial. ”

“Harry...”

“They’ve frozen everything. Fucking SIPA trustee runs the show. He wants a written request for anything over a hundred bucks.” His foot crossed the threshold, forcing her back. “Mom refuses to see to me. Says it’s my fault for turning Dad in.”

“I’m sorry. But I’m not your therapist, Harry. You can’t keep coming here.”

“I know, Grace. I’m sorry. Please. I can’t be alone tonight. Just this once, Grace, I swear. I never stopped loving you.”

“You need to leave, Harry.” She glanced toward the phone on the coffee table. “I’ll call you a cab.”

“No.” He grabbed her arm, buried his face in her neck.

She could smell the alcohol on his breath. “Harry...”

“Please, Grace.” The apartment was small. Barely two steps from the door to the couch. “For old time’s sake.”

“Grace?”

Air rushed into her lungs.

Quinn’s hand squeezed hers. She blinked up at his frowning face.

“For God’s sake, get her some water,” he barked.

There was a flurry of movement across the room and then a plastic cup was shoved in front of her. She stared at it. Her hand wasn’t steady enough to keep the water from spilling.

A box of tissues appeared, as if by magic.

“We’re taking a break,” Quinn announced, rising.

“No.” Grace cleared her throat. “It’s okay. Let’s just get this over with.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

He glared at the two agents before resuming his seat.

Wallace nodded. “Thank you, ma’am. You were telling us about Harry Blackwell’s visit on March 22nd.”

“Yes.”

“What was the reason for his visit?”

“He was upset. His depression was getting worse.”

“Did he mention anything about Blackwell Securities?”

“No.”

“What about where the money went? Did he discuss that with you?”

“No.”

“Did you have any further contact with Harry after March 22nd?”

“He called me last Friday, on my cell.”

“What did he say?”

“He left a message that I should call.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

She took a deep breath in and released it slowly. “I have a restraining order against him. The court issued a no-contact order.”

“Why?”

Grace turned to Quinn. “Do I have to answer that?”

He shook his head. “Gentlemen, I’m sure you have access to copies of the court documents. Let’s get back on topic, shall we?”

“All right, then.” Wallace glanced at his partner, who shrugged. “You didn’t call Harry back. But you called his mother.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because someone needed to check up on him, make sure he was okay.”

“What made you think he wasn’t okay?”

She raised a brow. Was this guy for real? “Harry was bipolar. Manic-depressive. He had a history of multiple suicide attempts. He wasn’t particularly compliant with medication or follow-up. It was just a matter of time before he decompensated again.”

“Decompensated how?”

“Became depressed or manic to the point where he couldn’t function. Do you need me to draw you a picture?”