Mission Canyon (3 page)

Down the street, I saw a blue shirt swinging through the crowd. My breath caught. His hair was brown and he had on khakis, was the right height. I closed on him.

I remembered seeing Brand’s photo in the paper after the accident: pasty skin and budding jowls, a bored look. Ahead, the blue shirt turned, and I caught a glimpse of the man’s face, stained red by a neon sign. I slowed, squinting at him.

A feeling like icy water dripped through me. The eyes, the cast of the mouth. It was him.

I hesitated. Should I perform a citizen’s arrest? Yell,
Stop, in the name of love
? He picked up his pace.

Call the police, that’s what you do. I dug in my purse for my cell phone.

Two college students stumbled out of a Mexican restaurant, singing drunkenly. They lumbered into me and knocked the phone from my hand.

‘‘Oh, man,’’ said one, staggering. ‘‘Dude, look what you did.’’

I bent down, grabbing the phone before they accidentally kicked it. Standing back up, I looked around. Where was Brand?

Ten feet ahead—there, blue shirt standing at the curb. He raised his arm and, with that universal urban gesture, hailed a taxi. A Yellow Cab swung to a stop. I couldn’t believe it. In Santa Barbara, taxis come along as often as Santa’s sleigh.

He was grasping the door handle when I dove on him.

I hit him from behind, hard enough to knock his feet off the curb. We bounced off the taxi and tumbled to the sidewalk. My wig fell over my eyes. I heard his breath blow out, felt my knee hit the concrete, heard the sequins on my dress clicking as I scrambled on top of him.

He squirmed underneath me.

I yelled, ‘‘Call the cops.’’

I pushed the wig out of my eyes. Beneath me the man stared back.

His hands were up, gesturing surrender. ‘‘Take it— take the damn cab. I’ll get another one.’’

He was at least fifty-five, with a pencil mustache and aristocratic Latin looks. His wig was just as crooked as mine. It wasn’t Brand, not by a mile.

Mortified, I climbed off him, apologizing, helping him up. He fumbled with his toupee. I brushed dust from his shirt.

‘‘I’m sorry,’’ I said for the fifteenth time.

He waved me off. ‘‘Go away.’’

Teeth clenched, I started down the street again. My knee was bleeding. I limped along, looking at the crowd, trying to ignore their stares.

After ten minutes, I stopped. I had lost him.

When I jogged back to the art museum two cops were talking to Jesse, and they didn’t look happy. He was out of his car, sitting in the wheelchair. The sky had softened to velvet blue. The security guards watched from the museum steps, and the minivan driver had backed his vehicle off the sidewalk. The usual forces had been at work. The wheelchair cleared space the way a magnet repels polarized metal. It also worked as a mute button, shutting people right up. But the resulting hush was never empty; pity and discomfort lingered in the twilight.

And Jesse, typically, had seized the silence. Apparently he had defused the other driver and convinced the guards to back off. The police officers stood with arms crossed, listening to him. Disability as stun gun: knock people off guard, gain the upper hand. He was a born litigator.

I heard him say, ‘‘Yeah, he pulled out without signaling. ’’ The van swerved, and he swerved, and the mailbox got the worst of it. His fault, but Brand took off and he had to follow him.

‘‘And every second, he’s getting farther away. If you’ll give me the ticket, you can go find him.’’

His face was luminous with anger. Then he caught sight of me, and a dismaying expression ignited in his eyes: hope. I jogged up, shaking my head. His shoulders dropped.

The shorter cop was a brunette built like a stove. She said, ‘‘Ma’am, this gentleman claims he saw an individual who’s being sought by the police.’’

‘‘Franklin Brand,’’ I said. ‘‘He’s a fugitive wanted on a manslaughter warrant.’’

‘‘So we hear. You saw this individual?’’

‘‘Heading down State toward Carrillo.’’

Her partner half turned and spoke into his portable radio, calling in the information. The radio squawked.

Jesse pointed at my bloody knee. ‘‘What happened?’’

‘‘Never mind.’’

The cop eyed my costume. ‘‘Is the rest of the Mod Squad still chasing the suspect?’’

‘‘Yeah. Just follow the groovy theme music; you can’t miss them.’’

She could have battered doors open with that face. Time for me to dial down the attitude.

Jesse said to her, ‘‘Chasing the suspect should be what you’re doing.’’

He gripped the push-rims of the wheelchair. His hands, in his half-fingered gloves, looked bloodless.

The cop ripped a ticket out of her citation book and gave it to him. ‘‘The Postal Service will contact you about the mailbox. Next time, watch for oncoming traffic.’’

‘‘We done?’’

Without waiting for a response, he spun and headed for his car.

He’d barely started the engine before he got on the phone again, calling Chris Ramseur, the police detective who handled the hit-and-run investigation.

‘‘Tell him to call me. It’s urgent,’’ he said. Hanging up, he looked my way. ‘‘Did you serve Diamond?’’

‘‘No. There were two Zorros.’’

‘‘Damn.’’ He pulled out. ‘‘ ‘You saw this individual?’ They think I’m seeing ghosts.’’

‘‘Chris won’t.’’

He swung onto State, a brazen illegal turn. ‘‘Brand walked across the street right in front of my car. He stared straight at me.’’

The image gave me a chill. ‘‘Did he recognize you?’’

"Didn’t give me a second glance. No, he was going to the museum."

We looked at each other.

‘‘Mako,’’ I said.

‘‘The ghost that won’t stay dead, no matter how deep I bury it.’’

Before Franklin Brand was a fugitive, he was a vice president at Mako Technologies. He was a star player at the company, which designed cybersecurity systems for corporations and the government. When he was charged with the hit-and-run, Mako panicked. It tried to divorce itself from the crash. Executives expressed shock at the charges. They disputed Brand’s guilt and convinced others to dispute it, persuading their insurance company to deny claims under Brand’s policy.

That left Jesse up the creek. He was critically injured and flat broke, a law student facing a six-figure medical bill that Mako’s insurer refused to pay. The future looked brutal.

‘‘I saw a life selling pencils,’’ he once told me. ‘‘Or worse, sitting on a corner holding a cardboard sign: ‘Hungry, toss food.’ I had nothing to lose. I loaded and fired with everything I had.’’

He threatened to sue the insurer for bad-faith denial of liability. Then he called George Rudenski at Mako. He talked to him about Isaac’s death, and his own spinal cord injury, and about Mako giving Brand a $65,000 car to play with. He explained that when he sued the insurance company, Mako would be a codefendant. Then he mailed Rudenski photos of the accident scene. Color photos.

Forty-eight hours later, the insurance company agreed to square things with Jesse and with Isaac’s brother. Rudenski had put it right.

‘‘Mixed emotions’’ barely described Jesse’s feelings toward Mako Technologies.

He said, ‘‘Brand was following somebody to the museum. He’s trying to get in touch.’’

‘‘Why would he risk coming back here?’’

‘‘Think about it.’’

I thought. Stupidity. Love. ‘‘Money.’’

‘‘That’s my guess.’’

‘‘You think he has unfinished business with Mako?’’

‘‘Yeah. That means so do I.’’

He drove slowly, looking at people on the sidewalk. Light washed across his face and shoulders, gold and red pouring over his skin, flashing in his eyes.

‘‘He stared me in the face, Ev. Straight at me, and he didn’t react. He didn’t know who the hell I was.’’

He claimed he’d put it all behind him. No good looking back, he’d said. Life’s a crapshoot. Eyes front, ’cause the future’s the only place you can go.

Acceptance, they call this.

He was a remarkable person, accomplished and savvy, a first-class smart-ass who made me laugh and kept me honest. He took everything the world threw at him and hit it back, hard and clean, straight down the line. The year before, he had saved my life. He was handsome, and brave, and I loved him. I was going to marry him in nine weeks.

And right then, hearing the pain in his voice, I knew. It wasn’t true. He accepted nothing as long as Brand remained free. Everything had just changed—for him, and for me.

I said, ‘‘Turn around.’’

‘‘Why?’’

‘‘Go back to the museum. It’s time to start finishing some business.’’

He let me out and I climbed the museum steps, knowing that Clipboard would never let me back in. She stood guarding the door, clicking her ballpoint pen as though tapping out Morse code:
Supremes invading. Send air support.

‘‘Simmer down. I’m just looking,’’ I said.

I stared past her shoulder into the foyer. I didn’t see George Rudenski. But I did see Steve McQueen finishing a plate of canapés. I rapped on the door and waved at him. He came outside, licking his fingers.

‘‘Back for round two with Mari Diamond? This will be rich,’’ he said.

‘‘I need your help. Could you tell George Rudenski that Evan Delaney wants to speak to him?’’

‘‘Oh?’’ He jammed his hands into his jeans pockets and stepped too close. ‘‘And he’ll break away from this shindig on your say-so?’’

‘‘Tell him it’s about Franklin Brand.’’

His suavity flickered. He gazed past me down the steps, where Jesse was maneuvering out of the car.

‘‘Why don’t you tell me about it? I’m Kenny Rudenski. ’’

Swing and a miss, strike three. First Zorro, then the Brand look-alike, now this.

‘‘Sure,’’ I said, ‘‘when you get your father.’’

His gaze ran over me. ‘‘You’re a pushy thing. Lucky for you, I like that.’’

He went inside and I jogged back down the stairs. Jesse was locking the car.

He said, ‘‘Do you know who that was?’’

‘‘I’m sorry. I blew it.’’

Kenny Rudenski was the Mako executive who had bleated loudest about Brand’s innocence after the accident. I remembered a newspaper quote in which he speculated that Jesse and Isaac had been drinking before the crash. This was going to be unpleasant.

‘‘Forget it,’’ Jesse said. ‘‘George will be stand-up.’’ He nodded toward the museum. ‘‘And we’ve got flak at twelve o’clock.’’

George Rudenski was walking down the steps, as straight as a flagpole. Behind him came Kenny, scurrying to catch up, and at Kenny’s side was a woman in her late thirties. With her crimson suit and shocking fall of silver hair, she looked like a banked fire that could flare up at any moment. She was Harley Dawson, Mako’s attorney.

I said, ‘‘I’m on it.’’

I aimed myself toward George, ignoring the others. ‘‘Sorry to pull you away.’’

He nodded and shook Jesse’s hand. ‘‘What’s this about Brand?’’

I said, ‘‘I just chased him down the street.’’

He stilled. ‘‘You’re sure it was him?’’

‘‘Dead certain,’’ Jesse said.

‘‘Son of a bitch.’’

Harley Dawson strode up. ‘‘I knew it, Evan. You came here to serve a summons, didn’t you?’’ She nodded at Jesse. ‘‘How’s it going, Blackburn? You enjoying work with the Militant Wing over at Sanchez Marks?’’

Jesse raised a fist in salute. ‘‘Power to the people, Harley. You still like greasing the wheels of power?’’

‘‘Yeah, it’s caviar for the soul.’’ She pointed at George. ‘‘Anything to do with Franklin Brand is a legal issue. Let me take this.’’

George said, ‘‘He’s back.’’

Harley blinked. She had freckles and elfin eyes, delicate features overcome by the hard stare and tense mouth. Which now hung open.

I said, ‘‘Here’s the legal issue, Harley. People at Mako have to hear that if Brand shows up, or phones, or flicks spitwads through the window, they need to call the police. Immediately.’’

Jesse said, ‘‘That means within thirty seconds.’’

‘‘Make it ten,’’ I said. ‘‘Wait too long, you’ll tick off the cops, and they’ll start using terms like ‘harboring a fugitive’—’’

Jesse said, ‘‘Obstruction of justice, conspiracy—’’

Kenny shook his head. ‘‘Unbelievable. Blackburn’s still trying to blame Mako for his life.’’

George gave him a scolding look. ‘‘Kenny, this isn’t the place.’’

‘‘No, Dad. Frank’s back, and the first thing this guy does is complain to you. Must be time for a fresh handout.’’

Jesse said, ‘‘Kenny.’’

Kenny stared at the wheelchair. ‘‘Hey, life sucks; how about cutting a check?’’

‘‘How about this,’’ Jesse said. ‘‘How about I hand you your ass. On a serving platter, with a sprig of parsley stuck between the cheeks.’’

George’s face mottled. ‘‘Gentlemen, enough.’’

Kenny raised his eyes and glared at Jesse. ‘‘I’d like to see you try, and—’’

‘‘
Enough
. Our guests are waiting. Please go and entertain them.’’

George turned to Jesse. ‘‘This is a matter for the authorities, and will be handled accordingly. You have my word.’’ Eyeing Harley, he said, ‘‘I’ll speak to you privately.’’

He walked away.

Kenny stared at Jesse. His jaw muscles were bulging. He was rubbing his fingers against his palms as though they were greasy. Harley nudged him, trying to get him moving.

He looked at me, wiping his palms on his jeans. The McQueen cool returned.

‘‘It’s okay. I respect that you’re standing up for the guy.’’

He touched my elbow, rubbing it with his thumb. Harley nudged him again. Shaking her off, he left.

Jesse watched him go. ‘‘And he’s in line to take over at Mako? Hope you like bankruptcy law, Harley.’’

He rocked back, spun a one-eighty, and headed off. Harley pursed her lips.