“Kinsey?”
The voice was familiar, and I turned to see Spencer Nash as he was slowing to a stop.
I did the same. “What are you doing out here?”
“Same thing you are. You want company?”
“As long as I don’t slow you down.”
“Not a problem. I was hoping to talk to you anyway.”
He turned so the two of us were headed in the same direction, jogging in tandem until we reached the recreation center. We did an about-face and retraced our steps, he taking care to match my pace with his.
I said, “I don’t remember seeing you down here. Is this your regular run?”
He shook his head. “I’ve been off with a hamstring pull and I’m just getting back into a routine. My doc made me swear I’d take it easy, so I’m sticking to the flats.”
“You live close by?”
“Other side of the freeway. A little subdivision off Olive Tree Lane. What about you?”
“I’m on Albanil. I’m out here five mornings a week unless I want to feel especially virtuous by throwing in a Saturday or Sunday.”
His footsteps were a ragged, off-tempo echo of mine, and I could tell he was reining in his natural tendency to lope. I wasn’t accustomed to chatting while I jogged and I was quickly winded. I raised a hand. “I gotta catch my breath.” I came to a stop and bent forward, resting my hands on my knees. “Shit. I thought I was in good shape.”
“You’re in great shape. I pushed you without meaning to. Why don’t we find a place to sit?”
We continued at a fast walk and finally perched side by side on the low wall that separated the sidewalk from a kid-size jungle gym planted in a bed of sand. Behind us, on the far side of a chain-link fence, was the kiddie pool, which was usually open from Memorial Day to Labor Day. This year, it would remain closed in the interest of conservation.
The smell of salt water was strong, the air saturated with the pungent perfume of yesterday’s catch: spiny lobster, ridgeback shrimp, sea bass, halibut, and albacore.
He said, “I was going to call you this morning.”
“Hey, me too. This is perfect.”
He loosened his long-sleeved shirt and mopped his sweaty face before he pulled it over his head. I was cooling down rapidly, already longing for a shower despite the two-minute hosing off I’d allowed myself the night before. Henry would look askance if he knew I was taking two showers back-to-back. If the water meter spiked, would I lie to him?
Nash rested his elbows on his oversize knees, his hands loosely clasped in front of him, face turned to me. “So what was the deal with Hallie Bettancourt?”
“For starters, it turns out Christian Satterfield was waiting for a woman named Kim Bass. It threw me for a loop at first. I’d run into her earlier at Montebello Luxury Properties, but I had no idea she and Christian knew each other. It seemed an odd mix.”
I gave him the short version of my round-trip to Beverly Hills, including the fact that the pair I followed had been joined by “Hallie Bettancourt” at the Rodeo-Wilshire Hotel. “Her real name is Teddy Xanakis. Theodora,” I amended.
He frowned in puzzlement. “Are you sure about that?”
“Positive. I can tell you what she had for breakfast Thursday morning if you’re interested.”
“You know who she is,” he said, as though confirming the fact.
“No clue. My landlord said the name was familiar, but he was drawing a blank.”
“She was married to a guy named Ari Xanakis. The two moved to Montebello six or seven years ago. They dominated the social scene until their high-profile divorce. That was a regular knock-down-drag-out fight.”
“Still doesn’t ring a bell. What’s he do?”
“Shipping company. Excellent Portage, only it’s spelled X-L-N-T. There’s XLNT International Shipping. XLNT Courier. Maybe half a dozen other businesses.”
“I see those trucks everywhere,” I said. I thought about the notion of Teddy Xanakis married to a shipping magnate. “You still think she might have been involved in that art-for-ransom scheme? I take it the victim wasn’t her ex.”
“Nope. Someone else, though from what I’ve heard, she’d have enjoyed sticking it to him.”
“Seems unlikely a woman of her social status would steal anything,” I said.
“Let’s not forget she paid you with marked bills.”
“But if she came up with the ransom scheme, why would she sit on the cash for two years?”
“She might have figured it was finally safe to put the money in circulation. Or she might have been hard up for cash.”
“Do you intend to talk to her?”
“Not yet. There’s no point in tipping our hand. If she’s a party to the scheme, let her go on thinking she’s gotten away with it.”
“I’m about to freeze my butt off out here.”
His smile was sheepish. “I’ll let you go.” He stood, all six-plus sweaty feet of him.
I untied the sleeves of my hoodie and zipped myself into it, momentarily warmed. “So what now? I’m not crazy about the idea of Teddy recruiting Christian Satterfield.”
“I’ll bet not. Especially since you were the one who set him up.”
• • •
On my way to work, I stopped off at the bank and moved money from savings to my checking account. My alarm system would go in the next morning and I’d have to write S.O.S. a check as soon as the work was done. I continued to the office and parked in the driveway between my bungalow and the one to the right of mine. As Taryn Sizemore had suggested, I unlocked and opened the door with a sense of trepidation. I didn’t actually believe Ned would return to trash the place, but I paused on the doorstep and braced for it anyway. I sniffed. The air was neutral, and a quick peek at my reception area showed nothing out of place. I peered into my office proper, reassured to see all was in order there as well. Nonetheless, I did a cautious walk-about before I sat down at my desk.
I had no phone messages and the mail that had come in was quickly dispatched. One sorry consequence of being short of work was that any unresolved matter was cause for brooding—Teddy Xanakis being a case in point. Even in retrospect, her long sad tale about giving up her baby seemed just offbeat enough to be true, and while I no longer believed a word of it, I couldn’t imagine why she’d wanted to make contact with Christian Satterfield unless she suffered a pathological compulsion to orchestrate personal makeovers on parolees. He’d certainly benefited from her sense of style and her willingness to spend big bucks. No harm had befallen him in that regard, but why was she doing it?
That question aside, the fact was she could have found the kid without help from me. I wasn’t sure how she’d have gone about it, but she was smart and it was clear she could bullshit with the best of them. Why had she roped me in? The problem from my perspective was that I’d provided her the information and now I felt responsible. Satterfield was a big boy and he could look after himself, but I’d put him in a strange position. He was thirty-two years old, an ex-con with no job, no income, and he was living with his mom. How embarrassing was that? If I knew what Teddy had in mind for him, I could either go to his rescue or quit worrying about him.
My thoughts drifted to Vera, who probably knew all the gossip about Teddy and Ari Xanakis. I was hesitant about asking her because I’d virtually abandoned our relationship. Now I wanted to pump her for information and I had no emotional bank account to draw upon. I picked up the phone and punched in her number.
She picked up almost before the line had rung.
“Hey, Vera. This is Kinsey. I thought I’d check and see how you were doing.”
“Great. I’m good. I’ve got three hooligans running circles around me.”
“Any sign of Travis and Scott?”
“Currently, the twins are trying to kick their way to freedom, so far without succe
ss. What’s up with you?”
“I was hoping to pick your brain.”
“What a thrilling proposition: talking to an adult. Why don’t you come on over?”
“I’d love to. What’s your schedule this afternoon?”
“I’m not going anyplace. Park in the drive and let yourself in the kitchen door.”
“Will do. I’ll see you shortly.”
On my way over, I stopped by a toy store, thinking I should come up with a “hostess” gift to atone for my neglect. In the past, I’d arrive with a bottle of pricy wine in hand, but as pregnant as she was, alcohol would be a no-no, along with spicy foods and cruciferous vegetables that in the past she claimed made her flatulent. Not that I’d give her a box of Brussels sprouts. My plan was to bring gifts for the kids and thus ingratiate myself. Their ages ranged from baby Abigail, whose date of birth was unknown, to Peter, who was close to four, with Meg’s age falling somewhere between theirs. I needed something that would entertain all three. Oh, geez.
Not surprisingly, the toy store was jammed with toys and I was at a loss. A clerk followed me patiently while I drifted from aisle to aisle, pondering the merchandise. Shoppers were few and I suspected she’d offered to help for her own amusement, observing how inept I was. I rejected packages of balloons, knowing the kids would surely choke to death. I decided against guns or dolls in case the parents were dead set against gender stereotypes. I knew better than to get anything with a thousand little bitty pieces, for both the choking hazard and the certainty of plastic parts being crushed underfoot. Nothing with batteries. I was hoping for something that cost less than ten bucks, which narrowed my choices to just about none. Well, okay, coloring books, but Abigail was probably not old enough to enjoy crayons unless she was eating them.
I spotted six racks of books, ranging from board books to picture books to books without illustrations of any kind. I turned to the clerk. “How old are kids when they learn to read?”
“Around here? I’d say ninth grade.”
I finally settled on three bottles of bubble solution with those cunning wands down inside where you can barely reach them to haul them out.
28
I parked at the far end of Vera’s driveway, where a half-moon of concrete had been provided as a turnaround. I went up the back steps and let myself in through one of the French doors that opened from the deck into the kitchen.
The furniture in the seating area had been pushed back against the walls, and the hardwood floor was layered four-deep in quilts and comforters. Vera sat with her back against the sofa, belly enormous and pillows wedged behind her for support. A voluminous tent of a dress covered her bulk and her feet were bare. A toddler I took to be Abigail stood upright beside her, a hand on her mother’s head for balance. Her legs seemed a bit wobbly, but were otherwise doing what baby legs were meant to do. She wore a dress of sprigged muslin, tiny pink roses on a ground of white with puffed sleeves and pink smocking across the front. With her bare feet and plump little arms, she looked edible.
Meg and Peter were running barefoot from the foyer to the kitchen and back again. They’d invented a game that involved propelling themselves down the hall at a dead run and smacking their hands against the front door. Then they’d turn around and run toward the kitchen, bare feet thundering, and bang into the back door.
In one corner, I caught sight of Chase, their golden retriever, who appeared to have been flattened by the children’s relentless energy and noise. When I’d first spotted the dog on the beach path, prancing along beside Vera and Neil, Peter was perhaps eighteen months old and Vera was massively pregnant with Meg. Now that the pooch was four, he’d mellowed considerably. He lay stretched out on the floor with his head on his paws. Now and then, he flicked an eye at the children, making sure all were present and accounted for, and then continued his nap. He didn’t seem to consider me a threat.
Of course, Vera and Neil had a live-in nanny. I’m not sure how she’d have managed without assistance of some kind, though knowing Vera, she’d have done just fine. She’s a big woman and she carries herself with confidence. She’d had her dark hair cut short and wore it now in a shag. With her oversize blue-tinted aviator glasses, she managed to look glamorous even with her midsection pumped up like a dirigible.
After we exchanged the requisite greetings, Vera said, “This is Bonnie.” She indicated the stout middle-aged woman at the kitchen counter and I lifted a hand in greeting. Bonnie smiled in return. She’d soft-boiled half a dozen eggs, three of which now sat upright in yellow egg cups shaped like chicks. She began to slice the tops off, leaving the half shells to form vessels into which the children could dip strips of buttered toast cut into “soldiers.” She’d set up three Peter Rabbit–themed plastic plates divided into compartments. In one, she’d placed diced bananas and pineapple; in another, radish flowers and spirals of raw carrot.
Vera called over her shoulder. “Hey, kids? Settle down. It’s picnic time. Peter? You and Meg come sit in the clouds with me.”
Peter appeared from the hallway at a dead run and flung himself across the comforters with Meg right behind him, mimicking his actions. The entire house, or at least the portions I could see, had been child-proofed. Most of the surfaces were bare, and all the electric sockets were sealed with plastic devices designed to prevent children from sticking forks in the slots, thereby electrocuting themselves. There were no bookshelves with massive volumes perilously close to the edge, no knickknacks within reach of tiny hands. Lamps were wall- or ceiling-mounted, with no dangling cords. Lower cabinets were locked by means of hardware that required the swiping of a magnetic key. There were spring-loaded latches as well. Retractable gates were drawn across the doorway between the kitchen and dining room. The children had free run of the hallway. Period.
What struck me was the uncanny resemblance between Vera and her small brood. Something in her facial structure had been translated intact. They were as beautiful as small foxes, duplicates of her and variations of one another. No physical imprint from Neil at all.
Peter and Meg arranged themselves cross-legged on the floor. Bonnie set down an egg cup and a small spoon in front of each along with their plates, fruits and vegetables neatly segregated. The kids were clearly hungry and went to work with enthusiasm. Vera fed Abigail by hand, placing bites in her upturned mouth, which was open like a baby bird’s.
I said, “I don’t know how you do this.”
She smiled. “Shall I tell you the secret? You don’t do anything else. That’s why most grandparents enjoy the hell out of kids. They’re not always thinking ahead to something more important. Try to read or talk on the phone or undertake any task that requires focus and this bunch will be all over you. Sit with ’em like I do and they can’t wait to get away from you.
“The other secret is coordinated nap and bedtimes. I see parents whose kids are up running around until eleven o’clock at night. I have a friend who claims her three-year-old doesn’t ‘feel’ like going to bed before midnight. I’m looking at her like she has two heads. The kid doesn’t feel like it? My kids are in bed by eight o’clock, no ifs, ands, or buts. Kids need at least eight hours of shut-eye. Otherwise they’re whiny and out of sorts. Me too, for that matter.”
“You’re going to end up with five kids under the age of five?”
“Oh. I guess so,” she said, as though the thought had just occurred to her. “In all honesty, I wouldn’t mind adding one more just to round out the number to an even six. Neil isn’t keen on the idea, but he may change his mind. Have a seat. You want a soft-boiled egg?”
“Maybe later,” I said. “You look wonderful.”
“Thanks. I can barely walk without wetting myself, but I’ll accept the compliment in the spirit with which it was given. Is that for the kids?” she asked, indicating the bag that held my toy store finds.
“Of course.”
I offered her the sack and
let her peek inside.
She said, “Perfect.”
Once the children had finished lunch, I gave Peter and Meg each a bottle of bubbles, first fishing out the submerged wands and giving a demonstration. Both were absorbed by the slipstream of bubbles floating above their heads. Abigail laughed one of those helpless belly laughs and then sat down on her butt. Shortly afterward, she started crying and Vera declared it was nap time. Bonnie hustled the three upstairs.
Even as well-behaved as the children were, the ensuing quiet was wonderful.
Vera said, “Ah, grown-up time. Tell me what’s going on.”
I filled her in on my search of the Clipper estate, my subsequent dealings with Cheney Phillips’s mother at Montebello Luxury Properties, and the conversation I’d had with Detective Nash about the stolen painting that had been ransomed back to the owner in return for twenty-five thousand in marked bills.
My narrative included, but was not limited to, my round-trip to Beverly Hills where I’d spotted “Hallie Bettancourt,” now known to me by her real name, which was Teddy Xanakis.
“Teddy Xanakis? You gotta be shitting me!”
“I thought you might know her.”
“I can’t say I ‘know’ her, but I sure know who she is. She and Ari Xanakis were the darlings of Montebello the minute they hit town. He donated megabucks to all the trendy charities, and she served on the boards of everything. Perfect combination. He was generous and she was smart and well-organized. She could also fund-raise with the best of them.
“They bought a big house where they entertained often and lavishly. The Montebello matrons were fawning over them. Don’t tell anyone I said that. Montebello matrons think they’re much too cool and sophisticated to fawn over anyone. They all claimed they genuinely liked the pair. ‘So down-to-earth and unpretentious, so bighearted and sincere.’”