Mission Canyon (7 page)

He pulled back. ‘‘You looked like this our first night.’’

‘‘Naked and smelling like tequila?’’

‘‘Enchanting.’’

‘‘It was dark,’’ I said.

‘‘Let me flatter you, Delaney.’’

I kissed him again. He wouldn’t be able to keep his balance much longer.

‘‘You made me breathless,’’ he said. ‘‘You were magical.’’

Nothing beats the mountains on a summer night, the city laid out like a blanket of diamonds below, the stars blazing, this man I craved actually wanting me.

It felt like high school. Leaving a party with a guy, going for a drive. We were working together at a local firm that summer, me practicing and Jesse on summer break from UCLA law school. When I asked him why he didn’t have a date for the party, he looked downcast. He said he was a lonely teenaged broncin’ buck with a pink carnation and a pickup truck . . . which made me think he was sad about a lost love, some college sweetheart who had let him down. And endeared him to me all the more.

Nobody around, night and the sharp scent of chaparral, the stars turning down until they sank into the ocean. The breeze fresh on my shoulders when he peeled off my blouse, his mouth on my skin. Me fumbling to unbutton his jeans while we grappled against the tailgate of his pickup.

‘‘Some magic,’’ I said. ‘‘I had the word
Ford
etched on my back afterward.’’

‘‘You never complained. To the contrary, you complimented me. You said I had a prizewinning butt.’’

‘‘Is that so?’’

‘‘Ass of the Decade,’’ he said. ‘‘Words I cherish.’’

I smiled at him, smelling the ocean on his skin, feeling his heart pound in his chest. The mountain was a singular event. Just that once, before he got hurt.

He said, ‘‘You miss it?’’

Oh, damn. His hands were on me, his eyes on me, his hips pressed against mine, swaying now, his wiring shortcircuited, nothing to be done about it. No lies to tell, because he had a sharp ear for insincerity, and I hated the truth.

‘‘Of course I miss it.’’ I ran the back of my hand across his cheek. ‘‘But I don’t miss you, babe. I have you.’’

I wasn’t saying it. How I desired him right now, as he was. And how I fought the wish that he was whole, that we could recapture it, just once. It killed me.

He said, ‘‘Lie down with me.’’

We moved to the bed and I lay next to him.

I started working my lips up his chest, kissing, teasing his skin with my mouth and teeth and tongue. Saturate him with sensation in the places he could feel it. I lifted his arm and kissed the inside of his wrist, working my way up to his neck, his face. His mouth.

He said, ‘‘I love you, Evan.’’

‘‘You, too, teenage broncin’ buck.’’

We both kicked off our shoes. Man, I dig those rhythm and blues.

At first I thought it was the wind that woke me. The Monterey pines were scratching against the roof. The clock said two fifteen.

But it was Jesse, dead asleep beside me, breathing hard, his hand clenching the blanket.

Talking in his sleep. ‘‘No. Help him. Don’t . . .’’

I shook him by the shoulder. He was hot, his forehead damp with sweat.

‘‘Jesse, wake up.’’

His eyes flicked wide and he grabbed my arm. ‘‘Don’t you leave—’’

‘‘Hey.’’ I pressed my hand against his shoulder. ‘‘It’s me.’’

Recognition squared away on his face, and he let go of my arm. He stared at me, but even in the dim moonlight I could tell he was seeing something else entirely.

‘‘Jesus Christ.’’ His chest rose and fell. He covered his face with his hands. ‘‘It was the crash. The noise wouldn’t stop, and the light kept spinning. And Brand was standing over me, this big man without a face, staring down to see if I was dead.’’

I wound my arms around him and stroked his hair.

‘‘Then he went to Isaac, but he wouldn’t help him; he just walked away.’’

‘‘It’s over,’’ I said.

But like the night, the dream would return.

He dropped back to sleep before I did. About three a.m., I got up for a drink of water.

The house was built around an open plan, the living room, dining area, and kitchen all one space under the cathedral ceiling. His laptop was on the dining table, and I could see the screen from the kitchen sink. He had been online earlier, and the computer was still connected. Seeing it, I felt a twitch.

The screen was displaying a color photograph. I walked to the table. It was a
News-Press
archive photo, showing Jesse standing on the starting blocks at a swim meet. He looked voraciously confident, with all the certainty of bulletproof youth. Below the photo flashed the words,
You have a message waiting
.

This was wrong.

I looked toward the bedroom door. He was exhausted, and I knew if I woke him again, he wouldn’t sleep for the rest of the night. I stared at the screen. I could leave it alone. I could shut down the computer. I couldn’t stand it.

I clicked on
message waiting.

I felt as if I had bitten down on aluminum foil.

There was only one possible meaning to this, and the earlier intrusion. It was a threat.

The Web browser quit. Boom, it disappeared, and the computer froze. When I rebooted and opened the browser, the history page had no reference to the site.

I headed back to bed. But I didn’t sleep.

The day dawned cloudy. Jesse dressed in silence, putting on a white dress shirt with a blue suit. The maroon neck-tie whipped as he knotted it. He could barely get down a cup of coffee, though I drank almost a whole pot.

‘‘Write down the message, word for word. I’m taking this to the police,’’ he said.

I held my coffee mug, feeling chilled. ‘‘What did they mean by
everything
?’’

‘‘Somebody’s threatening to blackmail me.’’ He packed the laptop in its case. ‘‘And you know who I think it is? Kenny Rudenski.’’

He looked up, eyes fierce, and saw my anxious face. His expression softened.

‘‘Ev, you’re not actually worried that they have something on me, are you?’’

‘‘No.’’ I ran a hand through my hair. ‘‘Yes.’’

‘‘Like what?’’

‘‘Sex and drugs and rock ’n’ roll, baby. You’re a red-blooded Californian. You tell me.’’

He gave me the Wry Look, and took my hand. ‘‘I’ve never been a Puritan, but I don’t do stuff that’s illegal, immoral, or fattening.’’ He tugged on my hand. ‘‘I never took steroids, didn’t cheat on the bar exam. That business with the circus pony, the tabloids exaggerated the whole thing.’’

I rolled my eyes, relaxing.

‘‘They’re trying to freak me out. What I need to do is figure out how to trace the message path, so the next time the cops can get on them.’’

‘‘Next time?’’

‘‘When they tell me they want me to shut up or back off. Just watch.’’ He grabbed his car keys. ‘‘Let’s go. The arraignment’s in half an hour.’’

The county courthouse was a white fortress designed along the lines of an Andalusian castle. Adam was waiting outside. He wore Dockers and sandals, the academic-casual look not hiding the lines of tension in his face. Not hiding the hangover, either. He had on sunglasses and was trying not to move his head.

He said, ‘‘I don’t know how I’m going to look at his face.’’

‘‘Just stick with me,’’ Jesse said.

Upstairs in the courtroom we took a seat on the hard benches. Jesse sat in the aisle, leaned on his elbows, and stared at his feet. A minute later Chris Ramseur joined us, dressed in his usual jacket, checked shirt, and knit tie. Seeing him warmed me. Detectives rarely attended arraignments, but Chris was invested in the case. More than that, he cared.

Soon the courtroom door clattered open, and sheriff’s deputies herded the shackled prisoners up the aisle, a conga line of the dead-eyed and defiant. Their blue coveralls stank of sweat and strong detergent.

And finally we saw him, toward the end of the line. Adam’s hand gripped the bench behind my back. Jesse sat up straight. Brand walked past us, his gaze jumping around like a flea. He looked angry. He looked tired and dirty. But above all else, Franklin Brand looked rich.

He was tanned. He was smooth. He actually looked younger than in photos. He could have posed for the cover of a Yachts R Us catalog.

Jesse said, ‘‘He’s had plastic surgery.’’

When the judge called his case he was unchained and walked through the gate to stand at the defense table. His attorney was a man named O’Leary who stroked his skull repeatedly, as if hoping to find hair there. The charges were read out.

Vehicular manslaughter. Reckless driving causing great bodily harm. Hit-and-run. Flight to avoid prosecution.

At the recitation of each charge, the judge said, ‘‘How do you plead?’’

And Brand said, ‘‘Not guilty.’’

I glanced at Jesse. He was barely breathing.

The prosecutor requested $500,000 bail. Even I, no criminal attorney, knew that was high, but Adam hunched toward me, his face a fist.

‘‘Is that all?’’

O’Leary asked for $50,000, the guideline amount for vehicular manslaughter. The prosecutor piped in again, talking about the multiple counts and Brand’s risk of flight, and the judge raised his hand.

‘‘I’ve heard enough. Bail is set at two hundred fifty thousand dollars.’’

That was it. The talk went on, but we were through. Jesse spun to leave and I stood up to follow him.

Adam said, ‘‘They’re letting him go.’’

He was on his feet, gripping the bench in front of him. The judge looked up.

‘‘Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars won’t keep him in town. This is wrong.’’

The judge banged his gavel. ‘‘Order in the court.’’

‘‘Are you insane? Two hundred fifty K is nothing. The man is a millionaire.’’

The judge clacked the gavel. The bailiff pushed through the gate toward us, his face like wood. Chris urged Adam toward the aisle, but he held on to the bench. Brand kept his eyes front. He was picking his fingernails.

Jesse said, ‘‘Adam, come on. It’s all right.’’

Adam turned to him, mouth wide. After a long second he let go of the bench and hurtled from the room.

Jesse caught him in the corridor outside. Adam was pacing in circles, holding his head. I heard him say, ‘‘Isaac—’’

Chris said, ‘‘Evan.’’ He was writing on a business card. ‘‘This is the name of someone at Victims’ Assistance. Encourage Adam to call her.’’

"Right."

‘‘This is only the start of a long, hard process. He needs to get a grip.’’ He looked at Jesse. ‘‘How about him? He’s going to have to testify.’’

‘‘Don’t worry about Jesse,’’ I said, and my mind tripped over the word.
Testify
.

Adam was gesturing, arms wide. His voice bounced off the walls. Then the reporters came at them, calling out questions.

‘‘Mr. Sandoval, what do you think of Brand’s arrest?’’

‘‘How does it feel to see your brother’s alleged killer face-to-face?’’

Adam froze. Jesse swiveled, putting himself between them.

‘‘Is justice finally being served?’’

‘‘Any comment on today’s proceedings?’’

Jesse said, ‘‘You bet I’ll comment. Just a minute.’’

He looked at me, and I read his eyes:
Get Adam out of here.
I grabbed Adam’s elbow and hustled him down the stairs. At the bottom he shrugged me off and strode outside as though desperate for oxygen.

He said, ‘‘They’re letting him go. They’re letting the bastard go.’’

His hands were shaking, and I didn’t think from the hangover.

‘‘How can Jesse stay so calm?
Comment?
I don’t want to comment; I want to stand Brand up against a wall and drive into him with a cement truck.’’

He bent and put his hands on his knees. Immediately he straightened again, hurried toward a trash can, leaned over it, and threw up.

After a moment he wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. ‘‘Sorry.’’

I put my hand on his back. He was sweating.

He said, ‘‘Can’t we protest the bail order? If Brand gets out, he’ll disappear.’’

The anguish in his voice helped me make up my mind. ‘‘We can’t keep him in jail. But we can follow him to make sure he doesn’t try to skip town again.’’

He looked at me quizzically before it clicked. ‘‘Yes.’’ Almost instantly he looked lighter. ‘‘Of course. But around the clock? We have to work, and . . .’’ He checked his watch. ‘‘Oh, I have to get to campus; I have a seminar.’’

‘‘Go. I’ll take the first watch.’’

He took both my hands in his. ‘‘Thank you.’’ His eyes were red, his face haggard. ‘‘Thank you.’’

He was halfway down the block when Jesse and Chris came outside. I told them he had gone to the university. Chris looked pensive.

Jesse put on his wraparound sunglasses. ‘‘I told Chris about Isaac’s hassle with Mako over the missing paperwork. And about the blackmail threat on my computer.’’

I said, ‘‘The threat. What if they want to dissuade you from testifying against Brand?’’

They both looked at me. Jesse swore. Chris nodded at police headquarters, across the street from the courthouse. ‘‘Come on back to the station with me.’’

‘‘Give us a minute,’’ I said.

‘‘Sure.’’ He sauntered out of earshot, head down, looking like an absentminded professor lost in thought.

Jesse said, ‘‘You’re going to tail Brand, aren’t you?’’

‘‘Until I’m convinced he isn’t hitting the road.’’

‘‘Great. I’ll join you as soon as I can.’’ He looked toward the courthouse. ‘‘It will be hours before he posts bond. In the meantime, they’ll probably take him back to the county jail.’’