Escondido California

Wednesday April 14 2004

When Anna turned the car into the drive of the backup safehouse, she noticed a small white rectangle stuck in the jamb of the temporary front door. That wasn't suspicious or even unusual: the surrounding lower-middle-class neighborhood had a goodly number of small-time contractors and handymen-for-hire. On her initial reconnaissance of the area before beginning work on the house, she had noted a great many battered pickups bearing stick-on signs offering grading and concrete installation, roofing and electrical work, and landscaping and cleaning services. She had hired one such local firm, a father and two sons, to install her backyard privacy fence and to perform demolition and cleanup inside the building. The activity had stirred the interest of other neighborhood entrepreneurs, who often left business cards or flyers at the front door.

Anna intended to do all of the interior construction herself, so that no intruder could gain advance knowledge of the structure's layout and defenses. But she had a short list of preparatory and exterior work, and felt that involving the neighbors in the new construction project would quell speculation; also, making it a significant part of the local economy should lead people to feel proprietary towards it, thus adding another layer of protection. So, once the car was parked in the back yard and she was through the rear door, she marched straight through the dark empty building to the front door, opened it, and retrieved the card.

But the rectangle of cardstock in the door was headed 'North County Historic Preservation,' with an address and website beneath it. Below that, she read the name 'William T. Randolph,' followed by two phone numbers. On the back was handwritten in ballpoint: call immediately.

Anna felt no need to comply with the card-bearer's written demand; the man couldn't know when she would next visit the site, or how soon she had called after discovering the card, unless he happened to return while she was pulling in or out of the driveway. A drive-by wouldn't reveal her presence here, with her car parked out of sight and no lights on in the building. Besides, what sort of emergency might a member of the Historic Preservation Society claim to justify such a demand?

She got to work. Much of the renovation suggested by Mr. Garcia had been done in the week since the inspection: the brickwork and trusses had been cleaned, repaired, and sealed. Plywood still covered the first-story windows, but the upper story ones were now glazed with frosted glass, letting in a soft but serviceable amount of light. Now, perched atop a tall extendable ladder, Anna began installing alarm contacts in those windows for the security system she had designed. Soon those entry point sensors would be augmented by cameras covering the yard and the building's perimeter. As eager as Anna was to begin work on the house's interior, security came first.

The outside cameras should all be small and hidden at first, she decided. With nothing of consequence to see, and nothing but some building materials to steal, gathering intelligence on whoever showed an interest in their new hideout might be more useful than deterrence. Later, after the interior was well underway, she would supplement the hidden units with large, easily-visible ones.

From the top of the ladder, Anna looked down across the wide expanse. The second floor would be just for the kids, she decided, a sort of dormitory. Her and Mr. Lynch's rooms should be on the bottom floor, close to the kitchen and other utility spaces as well as the exits. She raised her eyes to the massive trusswork supporting the roof, remembering her conversation with the building inspector. The architectural magazines all praised the esthetic value of high ceilings, especially in common spaces…

A sudden pounding at the front door froze her at the top of the ladder. The sound was muffled by distance and the thick panel, but she deduced from the force and timing of the blows that the person knocking was a man or a large woman, striking the door with the side of a fist. The pounding subsided for just a few seconds, then began again. Wishing she already had cameras in place, Anna quickly descended the ladder and hurried to the door.

The antique atrium door slated for installation in the double doorway rested, still in its shipping crate, beside the present entry, a plain steel door set in a wide plywood-filled opening. The steel door had a peephole; standing on tiptoe, she peered through it, and saw an eye trying to look inside through the little glass lens.

The pounding resumed. A man on the other side said loudly, "I see you in there. Open up." He kept beating on the panel until she drew back the deadbolt and unlocked the door. She opened it a foot, and his glare smoothed to a merely stern expression when he saw her. He put a palm on the door, as if about to push it open. "Where's the work crew?"

"They're not here yet," she said, holding on to the knob and denying entry. "Can I help you?"

"Who are you?" The man's anger subsided; Anna wondered why gaining entry should mean so much to him. Then she realized that his attention was fixed, not on the view of the interior of the structure through the doorway, but on her.

"I'm the owner's representative."

"Well, I've been here three times, and the people you hired wouldn't even answer the door. Probably all wetbacks."

"I don't know anything about their citizenship, but I wouldn't expect them to let a stranger onto the property without my permission."

"I'm from the Historic Preservation Society," he said, as if explaining to a child. "The people who approved this project. I've been trying to contact somebody running this operation, but the application didn't include an address, and no one answers the phone. So I came here and left my card in the front door."

"I never use the front door," she said. "It's for deliveries, mostly. Your card must have fallen out and blown away."

"Hm." He paused a moment, as if deciding whether to believe her, and said, "Well, that's all right. I'm here now, and so are you. We'd like to see how the project is coming along, if you please, and I have some questions."

She considered for nearly a thousand milliseconds, then stepped back, opening the door wide. "There's not much to see at this stage. Damage to the interior was almost total. Most of the work thus far has been demolition."

He took a step inside and looked up and around at the huge, dim-lit space. "Taking out all the walls, is that safe?"

"They weren't structural. The roof is designed to be supported entirely by the exterior walls." Anna laid a hand on the three-foot-thick wall surrounding the door jamb. "They're very sturdy." She showed him the tag Mr. Garcia had attached to the doorway. "And the work has been approved by the inspection department."

He examined the tag. "Garcia." His tone seemed disapproving.

"You don't like him? I was told he's a very good inspector."

"Well, he can be difficult to work with." He took another step inside, enabling Anna to close the door.

"He seemed very friendly and helpful."

He gave her a little smile. "I'm sure he was. Are you all alone in here?"

"No." When his smile faltered, she added, "I'm with you."

"That you are." The smile returned and grew. He offered a hand. "Will Randolph."

She took it. "Anne Devereaux."

"And who are you working for, Miss Devereaux?" He held on to her hand. "It is 'Miss,' isn't it?"

"Yes." She slipped her hand free. "The owner is TKS Holdings," she said, giving him the name of the fictitious company Mr. Lynch had used to purchase the building and file the required paperwork.

"And who, exactly, is 'TKS Holdings'?"

"I don't know," she said. "Whoever they are, I never met them. That doesn't seem too strange, really. The people supplying the money don't necessarily involve themselves much with the day-to-day stuff."

"How did you get the job then?"

"Through an online bulletin board that matches applicants to jobs. I think the interviewer was hired just to find someone. I haven't seen him since. I communicate every day with the owner's rep online and by phone, but he's very easygoing and seems satisfied with the project's progress."

He grunted and reached into his pocket. "I'll have his number, then."

Anna locked eyes with the taller man. "Not from me, you won't." At his raised eyebrows she went on, "I'll pass on your request when I talk to him tonight. But I'm the designated contact for this project. I don't know why it was set up this way, but I'm sure it was done for a reason, and it's what my employers want."

"Well, aren't you a spunky one." He was smiling again. "Let's have a look around."

Thursday April 15 2004

La Jolla

"Sir, the monitoring program detected a hit on my driver's license this morning."

Lynch, sitting at the kitchen table, looked up from the coffee cup in his hands. "Just yours?"

"Yes, sir."

"Any problems?"

"No. I haven't been involved in any traffic stops or accidents. It wasn't a check of the actual card. The hit was generated by a general query through the DMV on 'Anne Devereaux' – spelled three different ways. The license came up, but it held up to scrutiny, of course. There hasn't been any activity on my other official documents."

He leaned forward and placed the mug on the low table in front of him. "I take it this was unexpected."

"Yes."

"It could be a random or coincidental check of some sort. But you don't like the odds."

She shook her head. "No, sir."

"Me neither. All right, forget about the DMV for now. Have you crossed paths with government officials of any description lately?"

"Just the Los Angeles County Planning Commission, a building inspector, the La Jolla police, some paramedics, and the Coast Guard."

"Mm. Right."

"But the police checked my ID when they interviewed me, and they seemed satisfied with my story. And Mr. Garcia didn't seem the type to snoop, even if he had the means…" Her brows gathered. "There was a man from the Historic Preservation Society yesterday, a Mr. Randolph."

"That's not a government agency." Although he might have a friend in the DMV.

"I know. But his behavior was very officious."

"Did he seem hostile?"

Anna turned away and began arranging items on the counter; apparently it was baking day. "Not really. In fact, he was quite friendly once he learned I was alone in the house. But he expressed severe doubts about the renovation. He wanted to see detailed plans, which I couldn't produce, and criticized our proposal for the building. I thought that was already approved."

"It was. Go on."

"He even hinted that the project might need to be halted pending an investigation. But he doesn't have the power to do that, does he?"

"Not directly. But he can bring adverse attention to it, and start a public debate, which we do not want. The question is – why is he threatening a project that's entirely to his organization's benefit?" Lynch studied the contents of his cup.

Anna turned from the counter to face him, eyes wide. "DMV again. Someone just ran the plates on our hatchback, the car I drive to Escondido."

"It will only show the car as a fleet purchase belonging to TKS Holdings. Nothing to lead back here."

"I know. But why is he checking it in the first place? What does he want?"

"Hm." It occurred to Lynch that his little housekeeper looked awfully cute when she was troubled. He eyed her over the rim of his cup, appraising her as a stranger might: young, slender, pretty, a bit unworldly, possibly on her first job out of college ... vulnerable. "Friendly, you said?"

"Yes. He smiled a lot, and he asked me a lot of personal questions, which I evaded or supplied from my cover story. Actually, we spent more time doing that than talking about the building."

"What does he look like?"

"Do you think you know him?"

"He's beginning to seem familiar," said the Man in Black. "Go on."

"Male, Caucasian, age thirty-two years plus or minus two. Dark brown hair and eyes, slightly receding hairline. One hundred seventy-five centimeters without shoes, seventy-eight to eighty kilos. Right-handed. What else do you want to know?"

"How was he dressed? Does he seem careful about his appearance? Did you see what he was driving?"

"Suit jacket and trousers, no tie, top two buttons of the shirt undone. My knowledge of men's fashions is limited, but judging by the buttons I think his clothes were expensive. Shiny black shoes. Large watch with several dials on his left wrist. No rings. Recent haircut, nails trimmed and buffed. Aftershave. He looks like he's no stranger to exercise, but he's been ignoring his fitness regimen for some time; his weight is probably five kilos above actuarial standard. His car is a Corvette convertible, from the late Seventies I believe, and well-maintained. White."

He grunted again, thinking of another sporty white convertible, a Jaguar XKR. One that he had last seen covered in dents and smeared end to end with its owner's blood. "I would have bet red." He sipped from his cup. "Do you recall the plate number?"

"Of course. I think it's personalized, though I don't understand it. 'D-A-H-O-T-1." She added, "Should I have offered him a bribe, sir?"

"No." No, helpful little robot. The bribe he's looking for is one you're not equipped to pay. "If he bothers you again, Anna, let me know, and I'll handle it. Just try to stay under his radar for a while."

Thursday April 15 2004

MacArthur

Caitlin glanced up from the books spread across her table to the opposite corner of the reading room, where the door to the main section of the library was located. She had been deep in her work, but her prey instinct, developed over years of being bullied by larger, older classmates and sharpened by her recent transformation, pulled her eyes up from the text for a quick look around, certain she was being watched.

For just an instant, she thought the young man standing in the doorway was Bobby: tall and athletic-looking, with short blond hair, wearing jeans and an open flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows over a white tee. She actually started to smile before a blink resolved the image into a stranger, one regarding her intently. He said, "You're Caitlin Fairchild, right?"

"Yes." Guardedly she added, "Can I do something for you?"

The boy took a deep breath and let it out with a soft grunt. Then he crossed the room to her table and extended his hand over it. "Keith Bauman. And I…" His voice trailed off as Kat took his hand. His grip tightened, and he stared into her eyes for a moment before he gave a little headshake and let go of her. "Sorry. Zoned out there for a second. Anyway. Miz Fairchild, I'm in trouble, and you may be the only person who can help me." He looked at the empty chair beside him. "If this is a bad time, maybe we could talk later."

"No." Caitlin marked her place with a folded slip of notebook paper and closed the book. "What kind of trouble? And why come to me?"

He pulled the chair out and sat directly across from her. He leaned forward and said in a low voice, "I need a tutor."

She scoffed. "I… don't have a lot of time for something like that. And I'm not looking for a job."

The boy's face lengthened. "I think you really are my last hope. But yeah, I can see why you wouldn't want to, I guess. Thanks for hearing me out, anyway." He started to rise.

Caitlin felt a stab of guilt, because she knew she really hadn't heard him out: her refusal had been automatic. "There are plenty of registered tutors around school. Some of them are teachers, even."

"I've tried that." He hesitated, then sat back down again. "Look, I'm no dope. I'm carrying a three point eight this year. I suppose you could do that in your sleep, but I'm happy with it. I've even been doing okay in this class up till now, but …"

She said, "What's the subject?"

"Quantum physics. I'm ramming my head against the wall with it. I can sort of grasp the fundamentals, but once I get to stuff like optics…" He shrugged. "I'm stopped cold, and the class is leaving me behind. I'm going to fail the course, and bye-bye scholarship when that happens. I've talked to the teacher, I've talked to other students who seem to be getting it. I even hired a tutor. Nobody can put the concepts into terms I understand." He made a sour face. "Well, truth, they usually just try to explain it the way they understand it, and roll their eyes at me when I don't catch on. I know what that's about."

She said, "I'm not following."

The boy dropped his eyes to the table. "My scholarship. It's athletic, not academic. I know what geeks think jocks are like. If I don't get it right away, they don't think I'm smart enough to get it ever, so they don't really try."

"Oh, I don't think-"

"Yes they do." He raised his eyes to hers. "I think you know what it's like to deal with people who never get past the first impression."

Caitlin felt heat at her neck and ears, and couldn't think of an honest reply.

"And that's why I think you're my best chance," he went on. "You won't assume just because I can throw a ball, I can't do simple arithmetic, or that my coach is pulling strings to make all my exams open-book. Because you're a geek and a jock."

"What?" She frowned. "I'm not…"

"The girls' water polo team hasn't lost a game since they made you goalie," he said. "I've never seen a game, but I've heard. If you don't quit, they'll win a title next year."

Caitlin brought a knuckle to her lips, surprised that she was actually thinking about it. "What's your sport?"

His eyelids lowered. "Don't laugh." A hesitation. "Golf." A moment later he said, "You promised not to laugh."

"No I didn't," she said from behind her hand. "But I won't." She brought her hand down. "I just would never have guessed there were scholarships for golf."

"Well, no free rides." He grinned at her. "Any more than there are free rides for water polo, which is my other sport. But I get some cash for books and tuition out of both of them, and I have some other things going besides."

"What sort of things?"

"Oh, things," he said, ending the subject. "You know, golf may not look hard, but it's really mental. It takes hella concentration and discipline. It starts with some knowledge of ballistics, but only starts. You have to be aware of every movement of your body all at once, just to bring the head of that club to the ball at the exact right speed and angle for that one… perfect… stroke. Seriously, the harder you work at it, and the better you are at it, the easier it looks."

She nodded, impressed with his devotion to his sport. "What position do you play in water polo?"

"Center, usually. O and D both."

The most active and aggressive position in the game, she thought. "That's quite a contrast."

He shrugged. "You just do what it takes, be what it takes, to get the job done, I guess."

Caitlin took a breath and let it out. "I'm busy right after school. Practice."

"Same here."

"Kay. Back here around four?" She was meeting Joel for some lab prep, but the time was flexible; the house curfew was her only deadline after practice.

"Err, no. I've got some other stuff to do after practice. But I'm open any time after six-thirty." At her raised eyebrow he said, "I didn't really expect you to say yes. I'll clear my schedule as much as I can for the next week, okay?"

"Okay," she said, wondering what she was getting herself into. She and Joel could be finished by six-thirty… "Let's shoot for seven. Where do you want to do this? The library closes early tonight."

"Well," he said, "I'm not going to have a chance to eat between now and then. How bout we go someplace I can grab a bite while we work?"

"What, like a Mickey D's or something?"

"Ecch," he said. "Besides, I think we'll work better someplace quieter." He seemed to consider. "Ever been to Montoni's?"

Caitlin frowned. "You want to do schoolwork at an Italian restaurant?"

"Why not? It's a little fancy, but there's no dress code or anything. School clothes will be fine. The tables are nice and big, and the food is great." He added, "You didn't even mention a price for helping me. I can at least buy you a meal if you're hungry."

"I thought you needed reservations," Caitlin said. "Day-before reservations."

He shrugged. "Well, somebody told me they get a lot of weekday cancellations, so it's not too hard to get in last-minute. I'll give them a call. Right now, I gotta go make my next class. See you tonight, Miz Fairchild. And thanks." He pushed his chair back.

"Hold it." She shook her head. "I feel ridiculous enough about this without you addressing me like a schoolteacher. I'm Kat, okay?"

He seemed to consider. "All right. And I'm Keith." He rose. "Oh. I need a number, in case the Montoni's thing falls through and we have to meet up somewhere else." He took out his phone again.

Caitlin tore a corner off a page in her notebook and wrote her cell number on it. "Hang on to this. There's some kind of glitch with the number. It's an odd exchange, and for some reason it usually drops out of call logs and directories."

"Hm." Keith stood and stuck the tiny note in his shirt pocket. "Okay then. Thanks again, Kat. See you tonight." He walked briskly away.

What a strange guy, she thought. He didn't look at me once below the neck the whole time he was here. And he actually talked to me, not a single stupid come-on line. Maybe they didn't break the mold when they made Bobby after all.

-0-

Joel scowled across the lab table at his redheaded partner. "How many times have you told me you're not into dating? No time, you always say."

Kat's cheeks turned pink. "It's not a date, Joel."

"Then how come you're blushing?" He pressed, "He's hot. Isn't he? What else do you know about him? What's his name?" How many times did you blush when you were talking with him?

"His name is Keith Bauman. I think he's a third-year, because he wants help with a third-year course. And he was all business, he didn't try to flirt at all."

Joel was the least intuitive of men, but he felt alarms going off all over. Hell, am I jealous? Or just worried she'll start neglecting her work, selfish prick that I am? "Do you want me to go with you? Maybe I can help."

She smiled. "No offense, Joel, but I think you're the kind of tutor he's trying to avoid."

"Well, what about one of your girlfriends then? Your sister, she's taking physics, right? Bet she'd love to go."

"She's studying astrophysics, you dope. Not the same thing at all, you know that." She patted his hand. "I'm a big girl, Joel. I don't need a chaperone."

He shrugged. "I just … don't want someone to take advantage of you."

"Have a little faith in your partner, guy," she said, returning her attention to their lab notes. "I'm smarter than I look."

-0-

When Keith left school at the end of classes, he found three young men waiting for him beside his car. They smirked at his approach. "What's with the shirt? You look like a hick."

"Protective coloration," he said, shrugging out of the flannel shirt he had purchased at a second-hand store earlier in the day, leaving him in a white ribbed tee. He held it by the collar and slung it over his shoulder.

One of the boys lifted his hand, palm-up, expectant. "Hope you got the cash with you," he said. "We don't take plastic."

Keith reached into his flannel shirt's pocket. But instead of money, he brought out the little slip of paper Kat had given him. He presented it in the same palm-up gesture, with his thumb covering part of the number but the words 'Caitlin Fairchild - Kat' clearly visible.

The three boys stared at the note. "Shit," one of them said. "That's really-"

"Yeah, really." Keith pocketed the note and waited.

"Damn. 'Fantasy' Fairchild. I can't believe you got it." He dug into his pocket and pulled out a folded wad of cash and started counting ten-dollar bills. The other two reached behind them for their wallets.

Keith waited until the first of them started to hand over the money, then said, "You're short."

The boys frowned. The leader, Mark, the loudmouth who had first challenged Keith to make the wager, said, "Fifty bucks you couldn't get her number, by end of classes today. Each. That was the bet."

"Yeah," he agreed, "but there was a rider. If I pulled off the first one."

The three stopped, reminding Keith of a herd of deer at the snap of a twig. "Bullshit," said one of them.

He looked at them in turn. "Tonight," he said. "Seven o'clock, Montoni's."

"Prove it."

"How? Go there and see."

"You can't get reservations this late at Montoni's, not ever."

"No," Keith said. "That's why I made it yesterday."

The boys regarded him silently for a few moments, then Mark reached back into his pocket. "Cocky son of a bitch. You must've done it as soon as you took the bet."

"Uh huh. And clearly my confidence was justified."

Mark put another three hundred dollars into Keith's hand. "How'd you get a date out of that stuck-up bitch? Half the guys in school have tried."

Keith sighed theatrically. "They didn't try all that hard. You guys always use the same patter with every girl you hit on, which is why ninety percent of the time you get turned away with your eyebrows singed. They're not all the same. You have to study your target, figure out what they like and how they think, find a way to get their interest. Before you talk to them."

The second boy ponied up his money. "I'm gonna be eating Spaghettios and ducking the landlord till the end of the month," said the boy Keith had once heard talking of drinking Caitlin Fairchild's bathwater. "But I'd pay double to know how you did it."

"Knowing wouldn't help you do it yourself," Keith said.

"Then it wouldn't hurt to tell."

He paused, then shrugged. "Caitlin Fairchild isn't 'stuck up.' She's terrified of men."

Half a minute later, Mark caught his breath and wiped at his eyes, glancing at his fellow bettors, who were rolling their eyes and chuckling. "Oh, hell, you're good. How do you say that shit with a straight face?"

"And why do you think I'm joking?"

"You know she's on the water polo team, right? Ever go to her games?"

"Not really," Keith said. He had been to every one of them, at-home and away games both, soliciting bets from fans of opposing teams. But he always left before the end; he preferred to collect his money outside of school, so he would meet his marks in the lot, as he had here, or at a nearby coffee shop he frequented.

"The USC match, Monday before last. Did you hear what she did?"

"She held them, and we won." As usual. The sucker bets were drying up as word spread about the girls' team and their new brick-wall goalie; he was going to have to find another caper soon.

"When she was climbing out of the pool after the game, some jock from USC waylaid her and offered her a towel, trying to make some time. Must have thought he was gonna show the MacArthur boys how to do it. Instead of just walking past him and following her girlfriends into the locker room, she takes the towel from him, and … well, what she did with that towel, you'd have to see to believe."

"You'd never forget it, either," put in another of the suckers. "The girl lived up to her nickname, for sure. Must have got tired of keeping the boys guessing."

Mark went on, "Truth. Every guy in the stands got an itch he couldn't scratch, if you know what I mean, and the Love Doctor from USC forgets how to talk, just stands there with his mouth open. When she's all done, she flips the towel over her shoulder and strolls away. Clear as anything, she was telling them, 'I know what you want, and I've got more of it than you can handle, but you're not getting any.' She acted about as scared of men as a grizzly bear."

In Keith's experience, people tended to see what they wanted; it was how he was able to talk them into so many sucker bets. He was sure that, whatever had happened between Kat and the USC guy, it wasn't what Mark had described. "Wish I'd been there to see it."

At Keith's doubtful look Mark went on, "Okay, seriously. What has everybody else been missing, man?"

Keith huffed. "You never try to flatter a hot chick by telling her she's hot, unless that's the only thing she's got going for her. She's heard it ten thousand times already, and she knows what you really mean when you say it." Even worse than telling her she has beautiful eyes. You can't do that with a girl you just met, even if they're so hypnotic you can feel yourself falling into them if you get too close… "Find something else about her to be impressed by, and find a way to show her you think that it's important. With Caitlin, it was easy. She's a supergeek. They love solving problems. So I gave her a problem to solve that let her show off her smarts." He turned to the third boy, the one who had offered to eat Kat's washcloth. "You owe me three-fifty."

The boy said almost inaudibly, "I didn't think you could do it. I didn't bring it."

Keith waved the seven hundred from the other two bettors. "If I had lost, and hadn't come out here with fifty each to drop into your hands, it would have been all over the school by lunch tomorrow. I'd have never heard the end of it."

The boy offered him a fifty-dollar bill. "I'll get it to you, okay? Tomorrow at the latest."

He looked at the other two. "Is he good for it?"

Mark looked at the boy sourly. "Yeah, he's a dipshit, but he's good for it."

"Okay." He pocketed the money and unlocked his car. "If you want, you could go to Montoni's and act like you're meeting somebody, to give you a chance to look through the dining room. Do not come to our table, or even look our way for more than five seconds. I mean it."

"I'll take your word for it," said Mark. He glared at the boy who hadn't paid. Keith understood the exchange. Much as they might like to, checking Keith's story would be cheap and dishonorable after he had been so generous toward the welcher in their group.

Keith got into his ride, and the boys outside dispersed. Instead of starting the motor, he got on the phone and made four calls to Montoni's, cancelling the other reservations between six-thirty and eight-thirty that he had made yesterday under four different names. Then he took out his wallet, added the thick pad of bills to the lonely fin already there, and started the car.

The harder you work at it, the better you are at it, the easier you make it look.

…

Keith Bauman sat at the wheel of his car in Montoni's crowded lot, in a spot where he could watch both the front door and the lot's entrance. He had arrived fifteen minutes early, because he didn't want to miss Kat's arrival. Also, he wanted to see her car. Sometimes you could tell a lot about someone by the ride they picked. The only thing she drove to school was a minivan, bussing her and her four housemates to school, but if she had something different for herself, he was sure she'd arrive in it tonight. His own ride was a nondescript two-door that no one would look twice at, a car that a thief would pass by without even looking in the windows. Sometimes it was important to stay under the radar.

Beside him on the passenger seat was the 'dossier' that a well-meaning Mark had pressed into his hands, two one-sided pages that contained everything some computer geek could dig up about 'Fantasy' Fairchild. Though doubtful, Keith had read it; you never knew. He glanced down at it now and scoffed. There hadn't been one useful item in the whole thing. Born in Seattle on August second – no year provided, though it must have been around '84. Leo – who used zodiac signs for a conversation starter anymore? List of previous schools, predictably high marks. The size of her school swimsuit – what the hell was he going to do with that? No DMV info, no family history. Garbage. He folded the pages in half so that only the blank back was visible, then folded them again and stuck them deep down between the center console and the passenger seat.

Keith had learned far more than that about Caitlin Fairchild from watching her - alone and with her friends, at polo practice and lunch, walking the halls and hiding out in the library - for the past three weeks. He didn't have her address, but he had followed her as far as the gate of her pricey little beachfront subdivision in La Jolla. Her class schedule had been easy enough to acquire, and had proved very useful. He had talked his way into an Advanced Physics class – just auditing, no grade – so that he could at least sound like he knew something about the subject. He was as prepped for this meeting as he could be, because under no circumstances should the girl ever learn that she had been played.

To that end, he had scouted marks for his wager as carefully as he had scouted Kat. He wasn't about to go around offering bets to every guy he saw ogling her, after all; what chance would he have if word got around? The number of people in on it had to be kept small, and the stakes large. When he had seen those three swooning over her as she passed them by in the quad, Keith had checked them out and decided they could be milked for at least a grand, which had been what he had regarded as an acceptable return on investment.

Kat pulled into the lot; if it hadn't been for her hair, he might have missed her, because the generic little four-door compact was about the last car he would have expected to see her driving. Guess she likes to keep a low profile too. He looked at the dash clock: she was right on time. He got out and headed for the door, as if he had arrived just ahead of her.

As she pulled her laptop out of the passenger seat and shut the car door, Caitlin looked over the top of the car and saw Keith stepping up onto the curb in front of the restaurant. "Hey," she called. He turned and gave a little wave, a broad smile on his face. She tugged down the hem of her sweater and quickly crossed the lot to join him.

He said, "I got this weird feeling you'd changed your mind, and weren't coming." Again, she noted that his eyes never strayed from her face, even when he had to tip his head up to look her in the eye.

"I wouldn't do that," she said. "If something happened, I'd call, at least."

"I forgot to give you my number."

"Oops."

"Well. Anyway." He held the door open, waiting.

The reception area was something of a surprise, and not in a good way: it wasn't what she had expected from a place with Montoni's upscale reputation. A grainy wall-sized blowup of the Coliseum covered one wall; on the other was a huge painting of a Venetian canal, complete with gondolier poling along, mouth open in song. The stub of a fluted column sculpted from fiberglass stood in the corner, and a copy of the Venus de Milo stood guard beside the doorway leading into the dining room, where a hostess in a prom dress stood behind a narrow podium. "Welcome to Montoni's," she said, looking them over as if wondering what they were doing there; Caitlin sympathized, since she was beginning to wonder as well. "Do you have a reservation?"

"Richardson," Keith said. "Seven PM."

The hostess consulted a pad, and then her seating chart. "Just a moment, please." She left.

Keith grinned at his companion. "Tasteful, huh? And so authentic."

She gave the statue a cool look. "The Venus de Milo is Greek."

"And the canal painting is probably one of a thousand copies cranked out in some art mill in Mexico," he said. "But the kitsch ends at the lobby. And the food really is great." He eyed Caitlin's laptop bag. "Study aids?"

"Maybe," she said. "It depends on how things go."

"That sounds hopeful."

The hostess hustled back. "This way, please."

They followed her through the dining area, which was tastefully papered and lighted without any tourbook-Italian-themed decorations. Nearly every table was occupied. If Montoni's had a lot of last-minute cancellations on weekdays, Caitlin thought, there must be people burning up the restaurant's phone trying to fill them. But the telephone on the hostess's little stand-up desk hadn't rung while they had waited. And the other patrons, most of whom were decades older than the two of them, looked quite affluent and out for a well-planned night on the town: all of the women were in dresses, and most of the men were in suits and ties. "Keith, are you sure we're dressed okay?"

"Sure," he said. "Montoni's has kind of a two-tier seating setup. They like to put the hoi polloi up by the doors and the bar, but they don't turn you away just cause your tux is at the cleaner's. If you're not duded up, they just put you in the back room."

They passed through a wide doorway into another room, much smaller, and busy with staff bustling back and forth from the kitchen. A low divider wall separated the patrons from the traffic lane; here, the seating was almost all booths of both the two-seat and four-seat varieties. As Keith had said, the patrons here were a bit more dressed-down; nevertheless, their garments still looked expensive, and both men and women wore jewelry, including very fancy watches. Many of them glanced up at the pair as they were led to a booth. The hostess saw them seated, dropped two menus on the table and left them with a smile.

Caitlin eyed the wide table between the padded benches as she dropped her laptop bag beside her. "Aren't we sitting at a table for four?"

"It depends," Keith said to his menu. "The cancellation must have been for four. Look at the menu yet?"

You know I haven't. She picked up the elegant-looking bill of fare and opened it. The inside had no leaves, consisting of just two pages of large text, widely spaced, with no more than a handful of individual dishes on offer. There were no prices listed. Clearly Montoni's was not an eatery that tried to provide something for everyone; rather, it was a place frequented by people who knew what they wanted, including something you couldn't offer on a menu. The little bistro where she had waitressed during her freshman year at Rutherford had been similar: snob appeal and exclusivity was an obvious but unmentioned part of what La Mange had offered its patrons.

"The wine list is longer than the menu, if you're interested. They sell some pretty good stuff by the glass." Keith was still talking to her through the menu.

"No, thanks."

"You sure, Kat? You seem a little nerved up."

"Just thinking. Do you come here much?"

"I think this might be the third or fourth time. You don't like it? You want to go somewhere else?"

"It's everything you said it was. Do you recommend anything from the menu?"

"I'm partial to pasta. The pomodoro here is great. It's all veggie, but they'll add a side of veal or chicken to your plate. Definitely should do that." He added, "Maybe both." Keith had twice watched Kat from the other side of the cafeteria, and had observed firsthand the big redhead's astonishing appetite.

"I'll take your recommendation then." She looked at the menu again. "Keith, are you sure about this?"

"Are you kidding? My scholarship's on the line, Kat. And I'm sure you're a first-rate tutor. I could feed you here ten times and still be getting a bargain."

"That isn't what I asked you," she said quietly.

Keith forced himself to meet her eyes. "I'd never come here alone. But I know this isn't a date. I just wanted to show you how important this is to me. I can afford it." He almost offered to go somewhere else again, but he was afraid she would accept this time, and he wasn't sure that one of his bettors wouldn't show up to check his claim despite their assurances.

She considered a moment. "Okay. I'm suitably impressed. But why didn't you bring your textbook or notes?"

"Well, crap," he said. "I left my stuff in the car." He shifted. "How bout I go out for it after we eat? Keep the booth clear."

Twenty minutes later, Caitlin put down her fork and said, "What?"

"Sorry, was I staring? Just glad you like it." Keith dropped his eyes to his plate and resumed ferrying vegetables to his mouth. What the hell is the matter with me? She's not the first babe I've shared a table at a restaurant with.

"Keith." She held his eyes. "What are you thinking about?" Her tone of voice told him the question wasn't casual, and she wouldn't be put off by a breezy answer. But the truth, even as innocent a truth as telling her he thought she was beautiful, would never do, not with a girl who avoided romance as determinedly as this one.

"Well," he said, "I was wondering what you were thinking of doing after graduation. Seems like you could go wherever you want."

"If only," she said, as if to herself, then, "There are a lot of possibilities, but I've still got a long way to go. The job market or the research environment will probably shift a couple of times before I get my sheepskin. Right now, I'm starting to develop an interest in AI, but I don't know how far I'd want to pursue it. I… Keith, do you know that boy?"

Kat was staring over his shoulder at an angle, toward the entrance between the dining rooms. Keith turned and saw the welcher standing in the aisle watching them with a smile that raised the hairs on his forearms. "Sort of. Excuse me a minute?" He got up and approached the boy. "You got your look. Now, how bout you get out of here?"

"Hey, man, don't get all hairy. I said I'd bring you your money, didn't I?"

"Not here, you moron."

"Why not? I got it in an envelope, it could be anything." He glanced at Kat again, who sat, fork in plate, watching them. "You're getting along pretty good, looks like. Want to take another bet, double or nothing?"

"No."

"You sure? Just-"

Keith put a hand on the boy's collar. "Don't finish that sentence."

"Okay, okay." He drew a letter-size envelope from his pocket and raised it between them, grinning at Kat, then slapped Keith's chest with it. When Keith grabbed it, he turned quickly away.

Keith returned to the table with Caitlin's eyes tracking him the whole way. When he sat, she said, "What was all that about? What's in the envelope?"

"Money," he said. "As to what it's about…" he looked down at his plate. "I'm kind of embarrassed to say."

"Tell me."

He said reluctantly, "I told you I had a little something going on the side. Well…" He shrugged. "I do sports bets. I won some money, betting on your last game."

"You said you never went to my games."

"I haven't. I've got practice at the same time, usually. But this guy was making book on it with some USC guys and I got in on it. He collected for both of us."

"So that's why he grinned at me like that?"

"Yeah. You made him a ton of money last week." He went on, "Guess he's been trying to hunt me down for days, but we never connect. Then he saw my car in the lot as he was driving by…"

"It didn't seem as if you liked him much."

"I hardly know him. But no, I really don't. I half expected him to try to cheat me." He cleared his throat. "Sorry, Kat. You know what the rumor mill is like at school. Tomorrow, it'll be all over campus that we were here. And there's really no telling how people will decide to connect the dots."

Kat shrugged. "It's done." She pushed her plate away. "So am I. Ready to do some physics?"

…

Keith waited tensely as Caitlin studied his notes from his audited Physics class, swallowing at the growing disbelief and dismay on her face. She knows it's bullshit. Of course she does, she's a genius, she can tell at a glance the guy who took those notes doesn't belong in that class. Maybe I should have bought some notes from a real student – no. Then she'd have expected me to explain them, and I'd have been screwed even worse.

The big redhead closed the notebook and rested her hand on it. "Keith… You're a smart guy. And I can see you're trying hard. But I think you've gone as far as intuition can take you. Beyond a certain point, you need math to work with quantum physics – even to discuss it. And I'm not seeing the mathematical grounding that you need for this course. Weren't there any prerequisites?" Her tone told him she wouldn't believe him if he told her no; she was really asking how he had gotten into the class without them.

"I, uh, tested out of the math prerequisite," he said. "It was multiple-choice. I guess I got too lucky with my guesses."

"Drop the course," she advised firmly. "That way, you won't lower your GPA. Go back and get the math first. It's the only way you'll ever pass it."

Keith rubbed his head, looking perplexed. "My scholarship doesn't depend just on my GPA. There's a minimum credit load per semester too. If I drop a class…" He sighed. "This is what I get for trying to take shortcuts. Maybe I'll still have enough credits to qualify."

"I'm sorry, Keith."

"You did everything you could for me, Kat. This is on me." He took the notebook from her hand and stuffed it into his pack, expecting never to look at it again. Now, to disengage. Not too abruptly – what guy would walk away from this girl without an effort? He needed to…

"Unn…" Kat looked down at the table. "It's still early. I don't have to be home before midnight. Do you … want to catch a movie or something?"

He stared across the table at her while her cheeks and nose turned pink. Softly he said, "A pity date, Kat?" He shook his head. "Appreciate the gesture, I do. You're a good person. I'm glad I met you." Now get the hell out of here, Keith, before your conscience gets any more raw. "But I think it's best for both of us if we part ways now." He took out the envelope and dropped several bills from it onto the table. "Walk you to your car?"

Friday April 16 2004

Escondido

Anna sat in the rearmost seat of the city bus as it traveled a circuitous course toward the safehouse. She had parked her car halfway across town and taken public transportation to minimize the chance of another visit from William Randolph: hidden though her car would be once it was in the garage behind the house, it was possible that the HPS agent might have convinced a neighbor to report its arrival.

The little cyber noted that a large percentage of the other passengers exhibited signs of an upper respiratory ailment: many of them were coughing and blowing their noses. A young woman in the seat across the aisle dabbed at her watering eyes with a paper towel. She caught Anna's regard and said, "You haven't got it yet?"

"No," Anna said. "It looks awful."

"Oh, yeah." She sniffed. "I hear in Japan, people wear surgical masks in public to keep stuff like this from spreading. Next spring, I'm gonna do the same thing, I don't care how silly it looks."

"Don't forget the hand sanitizer. Colds and flu spread from touching doorknobs and such too." Should I stock up on cold medications for the kids? Nobody is sick yet, though. "Are you going to the doctor's?"

"I wish. Going to work. There's no such thing as sick days at Happy Housecleaners."

"It's hard to find a good employer when you're a domestic," she said.

The woman eyed her. "What do you do?"

"I'm a contractor, actually," she said. "But I've done housekeeping in the past." The very recent past, about an hour ago.

"To put yourself through school?"

"Sort of," she said. "How long have you been doing it?"

"Ever since my divorce," she said. "Three years. It sucks bigtime, but I'm not going to be another single mom hanging off a stripper pole."

Anna filed the term 'stripper pole' for later study. "There are aid programs, right?"

"Oh, sure. I use them all - food, income, housing. We're not going hungry, but we're not exactly living it up either." She sneezed into a paper towel and wiped her nose. "The way the politicians talk, people on welfare all drive Beamers downtown to pick up their food stamps. I can't even afford a car." She let out a little sigh. "Guess after work I'll kill an hour in the waiting room at the clinic. Could be worse, at least the doctor will still prescribe antibiotics for welfare patients. If you need any kind of pain meds, you're out of luck."

"Can you go to school, and qualify for a better job?"

"I can't afford school on my own," she said. "And nobody like me is getting real degrees on the government's dime. The state has educational programs, but only for jobs that pay just enough to get you off the dole. What's the point?" She eyed the little blonde across the aisle. "Bet you haven't made a dent in your student loans yet."

Anna gazed out the window. "I'm making progress. But I'm a long way from paying off my debt."

The safe house was a two-block walk from where the bus let her off. Traffic on the residential street was light at this midmorning hour, but there were still people in the yards and on the porches to watch her walk by. She waved at the ones she recognized, wondering if any of them was in contact with the Historic Preservation official.

A truck she recognized stood in the street opposite the house's driveway: it belonged to the little father-and-sons business she had been hiring for small jobs around the property. The father sat alone behind the wheel. He got out as she approached and met her at the driveway. "Hey, Miss D. Your car break down?"

She smiled. "Hello, Mister Zapatero. Yeah, it's in the shop. Is there a shipment coming in?" Anna had given him a keypad code for the rolling gate controlling access to the back yard, so that building materials could be delivered while she was still in La Jolla. She knew there were no shipments due though, and the older man seemed uncharacteristically uncomfortable.

"No," he said. "I'm here …" He tried again. "This hijo de puta has been coming over here while we're working, wanting in the building. We don't even answer the knock."

"I know that. I talked with him yesterday."

"Figured you did. Yesterday he came by another job we're doing and made trouble." He looked away. "My family's been here for three generations. But all a prick like that has to do is knock on the customer's door while we're working and ask them if they verified our citizenship before they hired us, and … people don't want any trouble. There's plenty of guys they can hire to pour a sidewalk."

"I'm sorry, Martín."

"He wants us to keep an eye on this place, call him when we see you here." He glanced down the street. "I don't think we're the only ones he shook down, either. Your car's not really in the shop, is it?"

"No," she admitted. "I was trying to avoid him, but clearly he's one step ahead of me. What does he want, Martín, do you know?"

He studied her face. "You're not joking."

"No."

"He wants you, chica. Not just cause you're young and pretty, though that'd be reason enough. He's a bully. He gets off on the idea of … making you submit to him to keep your project going. Makes him feel all top-dog and powerful." He spat in the grass. "You really didn't know?"

"It seems silly in hindsight, but no." She said to him, "You didn't call when you saw me on the street."

"Hell, no. Not gonna let a little lost work turn me into a pimp."

"But someone will. And that means he may already be on his way." She touched two fingers to her lips and then to his. "You should go."

He looked down at her with troubled eyes. "You sure you'll be okay alone with him?"

"I won't have any trouble handling him." She smiled. "Especially if we're alone."

Half an hour later, from inside the building, Anna heard someone pounding on the front door. A quick look through the peephole confirmed the identity of her visitor. Anna undid the chain and opened the door.

"Where's your car?"

She raised her eyebrows. "What makes you think it isn't in the garage, Mr. Randolph?"

He gave her a faint smile. "Oh, I have my ways."

"Ways. Such as threatening to interfere with the livelihood of the neighbors unless they report my comings and goings to you."

"Don't be like that," he said. ""I'm just concerned about you. It's a dangerous neighborhood."

"The crime rate isn't any higher here than in Reidy Canyon," she said, naming an upscale suburb north of town.

"Reported crime rate, maybe. But these people steal from each other all the time. Nobody calls the police."

"What do you want?"

He gripped the edge of the door. "I want to inspect the project."

"Nothing's been done since you were here Wednesday."

He pushed at the door, and she let go, allowing him to open it. He stepped into the big room. She said, "You're trespassing, Mr. Randolph."

"Don't take that tone with me, little girl." The light dimmed as he shut the door behind them.

"You don't have any authority to be here."

"I don't need a permit from the city. You do. And there have been some concerns raised about your project changing the building's aesthetics." He stepped toward her.

She stepped back out of reach. "The building's exterior is going to be unchanged, except for cleaning and whatever alterations are required by code."

He moved forward again. "All we have is your word for that. You haven't even submitted a floor plan. And there have been questions about your proposed use of the building, and how it fits in with the surrounding community." He leaned over her. "I don't think it would be unreasonable to empanel a board of concerned citizens to review your plans in detail, and to demand you submit a list of contractors for approval before the project is allowed to go forward."

Anna looked up at him. "And how long do you suppose such a process would take?"

"As long as it needs to," he said, a little smile pulling up the corner of his mouth.

"This project's sponsors have other places to put their money. If there's no progress for months, they'll pull the plug. This place will be a shell waiting for the wrecking ball."

"That would be a shame, wouldn't it? You'd lose your job. And a failure like this wouldn't look good on your resume, either." He touched her hair. "And all because you didn't know how to be friendly. Good public relations is part of your job, right?"

She brushed his hand away, just firmly enough to dislodge it. It immediately settled on her shoulder. She shrugged, but he kept it in place. Anna detected a peculiar odor, faint but growing: it smelled very similar to a scent Bobby emitted whenever he was near Sarah, and Eddie around Roxanne. Smelling it now caused her to abandon her first hypothesis about its cause: she was certain that, whatever drew William Randolph to her, it wasn't love.

She said, "I'm sure that bribing obstructionist officials with sex wasn't included in my job description."

"Maybe not on paper, but you don't think there's a reason they gave a cute little chickie like you a job like this?" His hand slid down her shoulder to the bare skin of her upper arm, stroking it with a thumb. "There's a nice little motel on the Parkway just a few blocks from here. How bout we take a long lunch and discuss your project, and then you can go back to work?"

She wet her lips. "Would all of our … difficulties … be settled with a single discussion?"

"Oh, I doubt it." He grinned. "A lengthy project like this is bound to encounter a lot of problems. But nothing we can't deal with together. Call me Will." He took his hand off her arm and placed it at the back of her neck, as if about to bring their faces together. "Time to make a decision, Anne."

"Yes." She met his eyes, then shifted her gaze over his shoulder, staring until he turned to track what she was looking at up in a high corner of the building. She felt him stiffen when he made out the lens of the camera. She shifted, looking up at the opposite corner, at another outside camera remounted inside the big building just prior to his arrival. Finally, she nodded at the one over the door, just three steps away. "They record audio as well. It's time for me to decide whether to blackmail you, or simply send the footage to the Board and destroy your career." She stared into his wide eyes. "It is a career, isn't it? The Society is a nonprofit, but you're a paid employee. Being dismissed for sexual misconduct and abuse of your position wouldn't look good on your resume, I'm sure."

He seized her upper arms and shook her. "Where is it?"

"Transmitted. Out of reach. Secure."

Randolph's face lit up in infrared as he flushed. He shoved her away. "You little bitch. You fucking little bitch."

"And I thought we were going to be friends." She stood facing him, arms crossed. "Will. You don't fully understand the situation. I am good at public relations. I understand how to move people using carrot and stick, preferably with a big carrot and a small stick. What you don't understand …" She lifted her chin to stare at the camera for a moment. "That's the carrot, not the stick. Do you follow the news?"

The mask of anger on his face was overlaid with confusion. "What?"

"The news. Twelve days ago, a local lawyer was attacked in his home. One person being assaulted isn't usually a big deal unless the victim is a celebrity, but the sheer savagery of the beating he got earned him a spot on the front page – below the fold, but still." She held his eyes. "He'll walk again someday, but not soon, and not without a limp. And it's going to take a lot of time and money to restore his features to something resembling the way he looked before. He tried to … involve himself in one of my employer's other projects."

She turned away, staring at the front door as if looking through it. "The police withheld a lot of information on the case. The attack happened in his garage. His Jaguar convertible was wrecked at the same time. The dents in the sheetmetal match the victim's injuries. Your Corvette has a fiberglass body, doesn't it? I imagine driving your face through the door panel would produce a very satisfying crunch." She turned to him. "That's the only explanation I have for why they went so far. They must have been having too much fun to stop."

The odor was gone now, replaced by another that she couldn't identify, yet strirred her memory somehow. The blood previously swelling Randolph's face was gone as well, leaving behind a sickly pallor. His hands had cooled as well – shock, she deduced. "Who-"

"You already know too much, Will. Do you really want me to give you a name?" She looked at the camera over the door. "I'm sure I can convince them that this is enough to remove you as a problem – your reaction showed how important the job is to you. But if you make the slightest trouble, after my assurances to them that I have a handle on you … we might end up at the bottom of the same pond." She turned back to him. "Is it worth the risk to me, Will? Can I trust you to be cooperative, and help this project go through with a minimum of fuss? Or should I take the safe way, and let them handle it?"

He took three long breaths, and some of the blood returned to his face. "I need to check this out," he said in a shaky voice as he turned for the door. "If it does… you won't see me again."

"I might. The Society may have questions about this project. You need to answer them for me." She grasped the knob and looked up at him. "Will. If you had agreed that one time would be all, I would have gone through with it. It would have been my first time, so I don't know whether it would really have been worth it to you, but I would have done it. It would have been the easiest way. But you threatened to hold up the project time after time, whenever you got the urge. That wouldn't work. My boss is easygoing … but only when things go easy."

After he left, Anna dismounted the cameras. She had not hooked them up; she had no intention of ever sending pictures of herself to an uncontrolled location where they might be acquired by their enemies. The 'carrot' portion of her negotiation had been a complete bluff.

"The 'stick' portion, however…

He's beginning to seem familiar. If he bothers you again, Anna, let me know, and I'll handle it.

The attack on Roxanne's molester had been a grave risk, but John Lynch had deemed it justified and necessary. It gave Anna a strange, almost pleasant sensation to think that he was prepared to take such a risk on her behalf as well, but she was determined that that risk be avoided.

What would sex with Randolph have been like? She wondered as she reinstalled the cameras. Would the coercive nature of the act have changed it? For that matter, what was it like when it resulted from mutual attraction? As she had told her employer, television and films supplied a tantalizingly incomplete answer. Though she felt certain that at least some of her housemates were sexually experienced – her probability estimates ranged from a fraction of a percent for Caitlin, single digits for Roxanne and Bobby, over fifty percent for Eddie, and near certainty for Sarah and Mr. Lynch – she didn't believe asking the kids for sexual advice would be productive. And the one time she had asked Mr. Lynch to show her how had produced a reaction that made her determined never to ask him again.