Fool Me Twice

had given way to the chill of an early fall evening. She wrapped her coat more tightly around her. She clutched Jesse’s arm as they walked.

The crisp smell of the sea rode in on the coattails of a steady, bracing wind. A galaxy of starlight lit up the cloudless sky. A lone figure walked hurriedly by them, his head lowered against the wind.

“Paradise is a long way from Hollywood,” Frankie said.

“It’s home for me now. I like where I live and how I live.”

“Do you miss it?”

“L.A.?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe the anonymity. It’s hard for me to be private here.”

“And that bothers you?”

“Sometimes.”

“Because?”

“By nature I’m a hermit. I think I’d be happiest living in a cave and spending the winters in hibernation.”

“It’s hard for a police chief to be a hermit.”

“Exactly,” he said.

They had arrived at her building, a new five-story brick-and-glass modern overlooking the harbor. When they reached the main entrance, she turned to him.

“I had a lovely time, Jesse,” she said.

“Me, too.”

“Do you think we can do this again?”

“I do.”

“Goody,” she said.

  10  

Harry Kaplan, the process server, found Ryan Rooney in front of the trendy industry restaurant Craft, talking with a prospective agent, a toothy shark of a woman in her twenties, dressed entirely in black.

Kaplan interrupted them.

“Mr. Rooney,” he said.

“Yes.”

Kaplan pressed the summons into Rooney’s hand.

“You’ve been served,” he said, before disappearing into the crowd on the sidewalk.

Ryan shrugged.

“It was nice to meet you, Ryan,” the woman said, and hurried away. Ryan watched her leave.

Then he opened the document and began to read. Several lines caught his eye.

“Marisol Hinton vs. Ryan Rooney . . .”

“Reference is made to the prenuptial agreement between the parties. . . .”

“The aforementioned will immediately vacate the premises of the residence located at . . .”

“Mr. Rooney’s executive position at Marisol Hinton Enterprises shall be deemed to have been terminated. . . .”

“No further financial obligations regarding Mr. Rooney shall accrue either to Marisol Hinton or to Marisol Hinton Enterprises. . . .”

Ryan folded the summons, put it in his pocket, walked to the parking lot, and got into his Prius. He sat there for a while, considering his options.

The prenup he had signed deprived him of access to any of Marisol’s assets.

He had very little money, having mostly relied on her largesse for his expenses. He owned the Prius, but his insurance was due for renewal. Without work, his future was uncertain.

He was considering a move to New York, where he might find work in the theater and where Marisol’s influence was less pervasive than it was in L.A. But he would require more cash to establish himself there.

He hoped she would stake him. One final gesture for old times’ sake. He figured she owed him. After all, it was because of her that his career had stalled in the first place.

He switched on the Prius and pulled out of the parking lot onto Century Park Boulevard. The towering skyscrapers of Century City had long since replaced the back lot of Twentieth Century–Fox, which had originally stood there.

All that remained of William Fox’s dream factory was a replica of a New York City street and an elevated train platform on which Barbra Streisand’s Hello, Dolly! had been filmed.

He headed for the freeway, which would take him back to Camarillo, an industrial city located in the outer reaches of Los Angeles where he was staying in a low-rent residential motel managed by one of his would-be actor friends.

He thought about Marisol and his need for resettlement money. Surely she wouldn’t refuse him. They were still married. The divorce papers had yet to be signed.

And if she said no? He’d deal with that if the time came. But he was already formulating a backup plan. One that would carry with it an exceptionally hefty price tag.

  11  

Jesse was sitting at his desk, sipping coffee, when Molly hollered, “Renzo Lazzeri on three.”

Renzo Lazzeri owned the largest nursery in Paradise, which was once a factory warehouse that he had purchased when the factory closed its doors. He converted the space into a massive greenhouse, a showcase for every kind of garden and plant life indigenous to the Northeast. He added a landscape design department, which became notable for creating the most beautiful gardens in Paradise.

Grasses, saplings, hedges, bushes, seedlings, and flowers fought for space in his greenhouse. He specialized in rhododendrons and hydrangeas and also beach roses, which bloomed in profusion at all the best waterfront homes. And if you needed a riding mower or a top-of-the-line Weber grill, Renzo was your guy.

Jesse picked up the call.

“Renzo,” he said.

“Jesse,” Renzo said. “How the hell are you?”

“Better since I gave up hope.”

Renzo’s laughter filled Jesse’s ear.

“To what do I owe the honor,” Jesse said.

“Frankly, I didn’t know who else to call.”

“What’s up?”

“This may sound strange, but I think I’m being cheated by Paradise Water and Power.”

Jesse sat upright in his chair.

“How so,” he said.

“I use a lot of water around here. Everything I have is always thirsty, so I keep an eye on my consumption levels. My manager regularly checks the meter readings. Lately he’s noticed that our bills are larger than they were in the past. Not by a whole lot but noticeable.”

“So what did you do?”

“I checked our meter readings against the meter readings on the invoices.”

“And?”

“They were different.”

“The meter readings on the invoices were different from the meter readings that your manager took?”

“They were higher.”

“Indicating a greater water usage than what your readings reflected?”

“Yes.”