I shrank back.
I didn’t think he’d seen me. I’d barely seen him.
I recognized his shape nevertheless.
Al Bock.
I crossed the room in two steps and set the chain.
Threw on the damp vest.
Grabbing the gun from the nightstand, I sank to the floor, keeping the bed between me and the window, back pressed to the wall.
Waves rolled in and out.
Wind pulsed against the window glass.
Another squeal.
I counted to sixty and crawled to the bay window.
The Chevy was gone.
The first property Beau brought me to was on Mink Road, a gently rolling 1.1-acre parcel with pristine mountain views. Importantly, the site had existing lines for water, power, and sewer, plus pre-approved architect’s plans. The current owner hated to sell. But he’d taken a hit in the most recent down market.
Asking price was $705,000, nearly twice as high as the most expensive online listing.
“Bet you could make him an offer, though,” Beau said.
Amy and I had watched enough HGTV for me to know that the first property is never The Property. He was testing the waters. It was on me to play the part of the disinterested buyer while keeping him hooked on the belief that I was hooked.
I strolled around — snapping pictures, hashing out where to put the pool, the guesthouse — before concluding, “It’s a good start.”
He smiled. “Should we move on?”
“I think so.”
The scenario repeated itself, with larger parcels and higher prices, at the next two stops, on Grouse Way and Coyote Court. They were nice, I allowed, but at the end of the day I preferred to be closer to the beach. There wasn’t anything like that available, was there?
There was.
Number 11 Sea Star Court was 2.3 acres. The entire ocean-facing side of the property had been razed. I could see the hulking outlines of the mansions along Beachcomber.
Asking price was $1,875,000.
I let him finish extolling the lot’s virtues. “What about on Beachcomber itself?”
He gave me a look. The Look. Another HGTV staple.
What I was asking for was impossible — the real estate equivalent of cold fusion.
Didn’t I realize that I was going to have to compromise?
He wasn’t going to be able to pull this off.
If he did, it would take a tremendous amount of hard work.
“Let me put this in context for you,” I said. “It’s not necessarily about building or not building. Obviously it’s good to have the option. But it’s as important to me to preserve and hold value. I work in a highly volatile sector. I’m always hunting for opportunities to shave off risk.”
I thought if Peter Franchette could hear the bullshit streaming from my mouth, he’d take me on as a mentee.
Beau rubbed his chin. “Okay, here’s what I can do for you. There’s someone I want you to meet. You’ll be around tomorrow?”
“Not for very long. I have an appointment in the city. I need to leave first thing.”
“Let me see if I can set it up for tonight. That work for you?”
“It does. Thank you, Beau.”
“Glad we could make it work. You’ll like him,” he said. “You guys speak the same language.”
Amy, calling from her homeward commute, said, “I’ll be glad to have you back.”
“I’ll be glad to be back. Listen, I need to tell you something.”
“...Okay.”
“I saw the guy.”
“Which — the gun guy?”
“He came to the hotel.”
“Oh my God.”
“He didn’t come inside. He was checking out my car. I saw him from my window.”
“Did he see you?”
“I don’t think so. I can leave if you want me to.”
“But?”
“I was really hoping to talk to Beau’s person.”
“When’s that happening?”
“Soon, I hope. I’m not sure how long the conversation will take. But it’s almost six thirty. If I’m not out of here pretty soon, it’s going to start getting dark, and I’m stuck.”
“Can you move somewhere for the night?”
“I could find a quiet street and sleep in the car.”
“I don’t want you to have to do that.”
“I can ask the innkeeper to lock the front door,” I said. “Keep the chain on and my gun within reach. Or leave now. It’s your call.”
“I don’t like this, Clay.”
“I know. I don’t, either. In my opinion, it’s still unlikely the guy tries anything. It’s the second chance he’s had to get at me, and the second time he passed.”
“He could be planning,” she said. “That’s why he’s hanging around.”
“You’re right.”
“Is this person you’re meeting even going to give you what you need?”
“I feel close. But that’s a guess.”
She sighed. “I’m not going to sleep tonight. Don’t bother to say it, I know you’re sorry.”
“Okay.”
“Do you have any idea how many massages you’re going to owe me?”
“As many as you want.”
“As many as I want.”
Chapter 12
I paced, occasionally stopping to part the curtains.
A creak in the hall, a knock at the door.
Drawing the P320, I called, “Yes?”
“Kitchen’s closing,” Jenelle Counts said.
“Okay.”
“Do you want dinner?”
“All set, thanks.”
She left.
At seven forty-nine, I saw Maggie Penrose, the woman from the beach, disappear down the boat ramp to the cove, awash in pinks and golds.
At eight eleven, I saw her return, headlight bobbing.
Eight thirty came and I still hadn’t heard from Beau. He wasn’t answering my calls, either. The silence felt calculated, and I was debating whether to try him again when the Range Rover pulled up. I watched him hop out and hurry around to open the door for the passenger, reduced by the dim to a squat shape wearing a cowboy hat.
They disappeared beneath the porch overhang.
I checked my watch: eight fifty-three p.m.
The room phone rang.
Jenelle said, “You have visitors.”
“Thanks. I’ll be down in a sec.”
I swapped the P320 for the P365 and put on my second magnet-front shirt. I didn’t have a third.
It felt prudent to keep them waiting, just as they’d done to me. Right up to the edge of discomfort, but not beyond.
At nine oh seven I came downstairs.
The bar was unattended, the kitchen lights off.
“Mr. Gardner.”
In the dining room, Beau Bergstrom stood at a table, smiling. The other man was smiling, too, behind a bristling white goatee. His upper and lower halves were comically mismatched: scrawny legs in tight Levi’s, black western shirt straining at the gut and spilling over an ornate brass belt buckle. He resembled nothing so much as a golf ball on a tee.
“Clay, I’d like to introduce you to my dad,” Beau said.
The hat was a camel Stetson with a beaded hatband in a Navajo pattern. The man tipped it to me. “Emil Bergstrom.”
A pronounced twang shortened the vowels of his first name.
ML.
I shook their hands. “Great to meet you.”
“Better to meet you.” Emil fired finger guns at me. “Bourbon man?”
“Scotch. Neat.”
“Shoot. I was close. Coming right up.”
Beau fetched a bottle of Glenfiddich from the bar, placing it in front of his father along with two tumblers.
Emil uncorked and poured. “How’d you like that hike?”
“Great, thanks to Beau.”
“Been too long since I made it out to the Cathedral. Something else, huh?”