“I suppose not.”
“Take your pills and get dressed. We have company coming.”
He walked out of the breakfast nook and climbed the spiral staircase to his bedroom, where he slipped off yesterday’s clothes, then showered and changed.
Give it up, she’d said. Give up his job, his position. Give up everything that made him who he was.
In a couple of hours he would have two hundred of Orange County’s wealthiest power brokers gathered in his backyard for hot dogs, burgers, and potato salad. They weren’t coming because they liked him. They were coming because they needed him. They needed his pull, his influence, his ability to do favors and cut through bureaucratic obstacles. Secretly they might despise him-most of them probably did-but they would show up anyway, wearing broad smiles and offering firm handshakes. They were his courtiers, fawning and kowtowing, laughing at his jokes, grateful for his hospitality, eager to please.
And Nora wanted him to abandon all this-and do what? Practice law? Sit on corporate board? Play golf and watch his life go by?
Never. He would never give it up. He would do whatever was necessary to preserve his place in the system. He’d proven it many times-most recently when he’d ordered the elimination of Andrea Lowry.
He would prove it again soon, when he met with Abby Sinclair.
His cell phone rang. He answered and heard Rebecca’s voice.
“I’m not coming to the barbecue, Jack.”
Both of the women in his life were giving him trouble today. “Why the hell not?”
“Because of what you did to me last night.”
He barely remembered doing anything. He’d driven to her place, had a little fun with her, worked out his aggressions. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m all bruised.”
“You know I like it rough.”
“Yes… I know what you like.” Her voice was a whisper. “This is different. I’m all bruised, Jack. I’m black and blue all over. You really hurt me.”
“How’s your face?”
“My face?”
“You know, the thing that looks back at you from the mirror. Any bruises there?”
“No.”
He always took care to avoid the face. “So what’s the problem? You know what they say, clothes cover a multitude of sins.”
“My arms and legs-”
“Wear long pants and a long-sleeved shirt.”
“It’s August. It’s eighty-five degrees outside.”
“So it’s eighty-five fucking degrees. Big deal. Break out your winter clothes.”
“It’s summer.”
“I fucking know it’s summer. People wear long sleeves in summer. No one is going to notice. Your problem is you think everybody’s focused on you. People don’t give a shit about anybody but themselves.”
“Jack, you left me on the floor. I could hardly move-”
“I had some issues that were eating at me. I got a little out of control. It won’t happen again.” This was as close to apologizing as he would come. Somewhere he had picked up the motto of tough old John Wayne, who had an airport in Orange County named after him. Never apologize and never explain; it’s a sign of weakness.
Rebecca’s voice hardened. “I’m not coming, Jack. I don’t want to see you today.”
“You don’t want to see me? The people at the barbecue are my constituents. They know you. They expect you to be here. And you will be here.”
“Tell them I came down with something. Goodbye, Jack.”
“You hang up the phone, and you’ll regret it.”
He said the words very softly, without melodrama, the way any serious threat should be delivered.
She stayed on the line. “I’m not coming,” she said again, but with less certainty.
“You’re going to put on your long-sleeved shirt and your long pants and whatever else you need to look pretty, and you’re going to be here with a smile on your face, telling my constituents how good it is to see them, and remembering all their names.”
“And if I don’t?”
“You think I hurt you last night. You don’t know what hurt is.”
Silence for a moment. “I’m not afraid of you,” she said finally.
“Yes, you are. Now get dressed and haul your ass over here. I haven’t got time for this bullshit. I have real problems to contend with.”
He ended to call and stuffed the phone into his pants pocket.
Bruises. Jesus.
So he’d gotten her a little marked up. It wasn’t like he’d broken any bones. Bruises would heal. In a few days, a week or two at most, she’d be wearing her summer clothes again.
Unless he decided to pound on her some more, teach her a lesson for her disloyalty, her lack of respect.
Maybe he would. But he had other lessons to teach first, starting with Andrea Lowry.
And after her, Abby Sinclair.
32
Andrea had never been inside the Beverly Center. Shopping malls were always so bright and so crowded, and years of darkness and isolation had left her afraid of places like that.
The drive there took thirty-five minutes. She left her car in a self-parking area and rode a dizzying series of escalators that climbed the outside of the building, enclosed in Plexiglas tubes. Were there FBI people somewhere behind her on the escalators? If so, she couldn’t spot them when she glanced over her shoulder.
A map of the mall showed her the way to Williams-Sonoma, a store she had never visited in her life. As she entered, she caught sight of Abby browsing in the kitchenware section. In what she hoped was a casual manner, she sidled up next to Abby and pretended to look at a ridiculously overpriced toaster.
Abby spoke in a low voice without looking at her. “Thanks for coming.”
“What’s this is about?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
“Is somebody watching me? Or listening-”
“We’ll get into that. Right now I want you to pick up the item at the counter. It’s already paid for, and it’s in your name. Then go up to the food court on Level Eight and meet me in the ladies’ room.”
Andrea swallowed. “Okay.” She almost moved away, then hesitated. “What exactly is a garlic genius?”
“It’s this little handheld metal doohickey that minces garlic cloves. No household should be without one.”
Andrea found it easier to obey than to ask any more questions. She accepted the package from the salesclerk and carried her shopping bag out of the store. Abby, she noticed, was already gone.
On the eighth floor, near a food court called Cafe L.A., she found the ladies’ room. It was empty except for Abby, who handed her a cell phone as soon as she entered.
“Keep this turned on and with you at all times. It’s how I can contact you and speak freely.”
“So… someone is listening to my calls?”
“Yes.”
“And watching my house? Following me?”
“Yes.”
“Who? The FBI?”
“That’s right.”
“Oh, God. They know who I am.” It was not quite a question.
