Sins of the Fathers (7 page)

Dawn’s smile was rimmed with cynicism. “Just watch her try.”

2.

Lindy felt a hand on her arm.

“What’s your hurry?” Sean McIntyre smiled, his perfect white teeth reflecting sun. His dark brown hair was worn short and spiky, not enough to call attention to himself but enough to announce his cutting-edge status in the world of local crime reporters. Under his tight blanket-stitched turtleneck Lindy could make out the impertinent pecs and biceps he worked so hard to maintain.

“What are you doing creeping around?” Lindy didn’t want to talk to him, not now. She wanted to choose the time and place.

“This is a public parking lot, last time I looked.”

“So?” She was poised with her keys, seated on her Harley, ready to go. At least she’d slipped the other reporters. She wasn’t ready to make a public statement on the case yet. She wasn’t ready for Sean McIntyre, either. Too much emotional fodder in the blender at the moment, thank you.

“So here I am, standing with Lindy Field, who’s got the hottest case in the country, and I’m thinking, I’m the one reporter who deserves an in.”

“What makes you think—”

“Because I’m the one who knows where Lindy Field likes to park her bike. Guy like that deserves a comment, doesn’t he?”

“Call my assistant.”

“You don’t have an assistant.”

“Exactly.” She pointed her keys toward the ignition. Sean snatched them away.

“Hey!” Lindy pawed the air.

Sean flashed more teeth. “Just a quick interview, huh? Chance for me to say I talked to the defense lawyer in the DiCinni case. Exclusive.”

“Give me my keys.”

“Couple questions. You don’t even have to be specific. Just so I can say—”

“What part of ‘give me my keys’ don’t you understand?”

“What I don’t understand is why you are not returning my phone calls.”

A car on Hill Street honked an L.A. insult at someone. It zapped Lindy’s skull. She felt dazed. That was the word, especially around Sean. Did she want to see him or not? Maybe, but she was afraid. Afraid of what she might allow herself to do if she kept seeing him. Afraid that, with Darren consuming her thoughts, now was not the time to get romantically involved with anyone.

Lindy brought her leg over the seat and stood her ground. Sean was about six-one, a decided advantage. “Quit acting juvenile.”

“Like your client?”

“He’s only my client. Temporarily.”

“You sure about that?”

“Off the record?”

“On.”

“Keys.”

Sean shook his head. “Do you know you drive me wild? What is it about you I find so captivating?”

“Hand them over.” She swung her helmet at his shoulder. It bounced off with a loud
fwap
.

Sean’s smile disappeared.

“Give me my keys.”

“Take ’em then.” He threw them at Lindy, hitting her in the chest. The keys fell to the asphalt. “What happened to you?”

“Me?” Lindy was incredulous as she bent down for the keys.

“What did I do to you that was so bad? We had a good thing going.”

They had, hadn’t they? Lindy couldn’t remember that many bad moments. Sean had been there for her after a disastrous breakup, and in the short time they’d known each other treated her kindly. Until the night of the meandering hands. But he was a
guy.
Wasn’t that the natural progression?

His tone softened. “Lindy, let’s give it another shot, huh? I’ve got some wine cooling at home, we can put on some music, watch the stars come out.”

“This is L.A., Sean. You can’t see the stars.”

“I meant on
Entertainment Tonight.
”

“Maybe another time.”

Sean shrugged. He also let his face reflect an obvious self-satisfaction, with a half-smile that said
I know something you don
’
t know
.

Lindy willingly took the bait. “What?”

“Oh, nothing.” Sean scuffed the ground with his Italian loafer. “Just a little inside information about the DiCinni family, that’s all. Maybe where the kid’s father is. But you wouldn’t be interested.”

“Cut it out. What do you know, if you think you know anything?”

“Hey, maybe I don’t. Maybe I’m not the best crime reporter in L.A. Who needs me, right?”

“Sean, tell me what you know.”

“Sure.”

She waited.

“Tonight. My place. Shall we say seven thirty?”

3.

Sylvia Martindale, known to all her friends as Syl, was Mona Romney’s best friend. They’d met in junior high school, back in the days when it was still called junior high school. They’d been cheerleaders together at Grant High School, and even though they went to different colleges—Syl up to UC Santa Barbara, Mona to Cal State Northridge—they remained like sisters, writing all the time, then emailing, and always calling on the phone.

It was Mona who became a Christian first, in her senior year, during an outreach by the college group at Word of Life church. At first Syl was skeptical, but accepting. She told Mona this phase would probably pass. Mona was always going through phases, like her Sting phase in 1983, and her Bon Jovi phase in 1990.

But it did not pass like all those other things. It stayed, and Mona stayed in church, which was where she met Brad, and where they were married, and where they dedicated Matthew as a baby.

It was during the dedication, in fact, that Syl came to church and decided to stay herself. That day had been one of the best of Mona’s life.

Now they were together in the dark shadows of Mona’s worst phase, the season of mourning for Matthew that threatened never to end. Mona allowed Syl to drive her to the beach, to Zuma, just to sit together and talk and listen to the waves. In high school, they had come to this beach often, sunning themselves and studying the various lifeguards on display.

But Zuma, with morning fog hanging over the beach like a shroud, seemed empty of all good memories. Even the sound of the water, which usually soothed, grated today. Mona kept up a good front for her friend, not wanting to disappoint. Syl, seeming to understand, kept words short.

They loved each other enough not to worry about silences.

Syl had one of those instant cabana things that came out of a bag, and she propped it on the sand in about a minute. Mona had beach chairs and a radio, and each had a book to read. Mona had snatched the old paperback at random from her shelf. Turned out to be one of Brad’s military thrillers. Mona didn’t care. She wouldn’t be reading today.

“Remember that lifeguard on number seven?” Syl pointed, through the mesh of the cabana, at the wooden tower to their left.

“There were lots of lifeguards,” Mona heard herself say, her voice sounding distant.

“I mean the one that day who came out and posed. Remember? He had this tanning oil all over him and those muscles, and he knew we were scoping him, I know he knew, and he pointed out to the ocean like this.” Syl held her arm up in the fashion of a bodybuilder showing off his bicep, only with the hand turned outward so the index finger could point.

“Oh,” Mona said. “Yeah.”

“It was so funny, but he was built, wasn’t he? And we started giggling like crazy.”

“Right.”

“And couldn’t stop.”

“Mm-hm.”

Syl sighed. “I actually think he had his eye on you. He walked in front of us a couple of times.”

“Did he?” Mona looked out at the gray veil over the ocean. A few scattered people sunbathed along the beach. It was early yet.

“What was the name of the guy in our English class, the one who wanted to be an astronaut? You remember him?”

“You don’t have to do this, Syl.”

“Do what?”

“Not talk about it. I can talk about it if you want.”

Syl reached for Mona’s hand. “Only when you’re ready.”

“I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.” Mona expected hot tears to burst from her eyes, but they didn’t. Not yet. She was as cold as the ocean mist.

“I know,” Syl said. “I just wish I could do something to help.”

“You’re doing it.”

“I pray so hard for you.”

Mona nodded, but the words passed right through her.

“I just wonder sometimes”—Syl looked at the waves—“why God . . .”

“Allowed it?”

Syl pushed the sand with her foot. “That’s what I wonder.”

“You’re not the only one.”

They sat in silence as the waves beat the shore.

Finally Mona said, “Maybe the world’s a farce.” The words sounded stark and strange, like someone else had uttered them. Some other person living in her skin.

She felt Syl’s hand, still holding hers, tremble a little. “You don’t really believe that.”

Mona took her hand away and in that moment felt a slipping away, a slight yet perceptible sensation of change. She was different, the world was different, and her place in it was not the same as it was even minutes ago.

A breeze hit her then, and with it came the smell of dead kelp. The beach was covered with it. Mona put her head down and closed her eyes, and tried to keep dread from entangling her with thick, rotting strands.

4.

“First thing we do,” Sean said, “is open a nice bottle of wine. Does a fine Chard sound good?”

Lindy shook her head. “No way, Clyde. I’m not going to fall for that again.”

“What?” Sean put his arms out in a gesture of feigned virtue.

“You know what I’m talking about. You’re not going to get me drunk.”

“Lindy, me? I’m wounded.”

She breezed past him, letting her briefcase scuff his leg, and went to the living room of his spacious apartment above Sunset. Sean McIntyre lived like the rising star he was. His immaculate, trendy digs were not some standard single guy’s hovel, but the orderly arrangement of an accomplished seducer. Lindy knew she shouldn’t be here, at night, amid bomber-jacket brown-leather furniture, Erté prints, and a killer view. But she needed something he had. Information.

One thing Sean seemed to have, like a sixth sense, was a dependable line on information about crime in L.A.

Plopping on the couch, Lindy snatched a copy of
GQ
off the glass coffee table. “You leave this literature around where people can actually see it?”

“Hey, I’ve got a spread in there.” Sean entered, carrying a single glass of white wine. “What can I get you to drink, Lindy? Tap water?”

“Nothing for me. This isn’t a social visit, if you’ll recall.”

He sat next to her, keeping a respectable distance. “Can’t we just relax a little first?”

“No.”

“Don’t beat around the bush, Lindy. Just tell me how you feel.”

She flipped through the magazine, finding the photos of Sean without a problem. Apparently the periodical had been thumbed frequently to this spot.

Lindy nodded. “Makeup does wonders.”

“Funny.” Sean put his feet up on the coffee table. He was wearing dark socks to go with his slacks. His casual silk shirt was two buttons open at the collar. “Do I look like an animal to you?”

Lindy tossed the magazine on the table. It hit the edge and fluttered to the floor. She made no move to retrieve it.

“So how did you land this plum assignment?” Sean asked.

“Plum?”

“It’s national news. Your face is going to be everywhere.”

“You think I care about that?”

“Don’t all lawyers care about that?”

She turned, pulling one leg up on the sofa, and faced him.“Were you born cynical, or did you develop it all on your own?”

Sean winked. “Which answer will get you to spend the night?”

“Can we get down to business, please?” Lindy opened her briefcase and pulled out a legal pad.

Sean sipped his wine and smiled. “I’m here to serve.”

“So you know where Darren’s father is?”

“Yep.”

“And that would be . . . ?”

“Nearby.”

“Okay, wise guy. Just tell me.”

“Now look, Counselor, you don’t think I’m just going to give up this choice nugget out of the goodness of my heart, do you?”

“Your heart has goodness?”

“Maybe you choose not to see it.” He leaned toward her and actually bobbed his eyebrows. It was like he was sixteen years old.

“Can we get back to the matter at hand?” Lindy said.

“We never left it. We’re discussing this piece of valuable information. I’m a reporter. Maybe I want something in return.
Quid pro
quo
, as they say.”

“What you want I’m not giving.”

Sean put his hand over his heart in feigned shock. “You make me sound like such a tramp.”

Lindy smiled and almost nodded.

“Look, I already apologized for being a jerk, what more do you want?”