Riverstar (3) (24 page)

“Cute place,” said Peter almost absently.

Peter went out to the balcony. She shivered when she saw him lean against the ledge. Averting her eyes, she called out to him. “You want something to drink?”

“You have any tea?”

“Like iced?”

“No, like green.”

“Seriously, you’re like a chick.”

“And you’re kinda like a guy.”

“I know. I’m badass.”

She heard him laugh as she put the kettle on. “You’ll have to come inside to drink this.”

From the balcony, “Why’s that?”

“I never go out there. I’m afraid of heights.”

He came inside. “Is that why there’s no furniture out there?”

“Right.” She set a cup of tea on the kitchen table for him.

Peter paced in front of the sliding glass door, pausing every so often to gaze out toward the water. Finally, he perched on the edge of the table, pulling out the list from his pocket. “Okay, I’m going to
make some phone calls. See if we can get these guys to meet with
us.”

“I’ll leave you to it. Think I’ll take a walk out to the boardwalk.” Reaching into the coat closet by the front door, she slipped off her
heels and into a pair of athletic socks from the pile she kept in a
basket and then into her tennis shoes. “Call me when you’re ready for me to come back.”

But he seemed not to hear, already dialing the first number on their list.

***

The three-mile beach itself was deserted; lifeguard towers stood alone and barren next to sand the color of Melba toast. The wind, chilly this time of year, whipped the orange flags as if to say,
we’re still here
, waiting for the months when the sand would be covered with bathing-suit clad bodies. There were several surfers, wearing full wetsuits, sitting on their boards, waiting for the next wave. But the boardwalk was active as ever. She walked past the sign for the Medical Marijuana Doctor, and the skateboard park, never empty, always with the whooshing sound of boards on concrete. Did these lost boys go to school, she often wondered? Soon she came upon the body builders, ever vigilant and shirtless, arm muscles the size of
small watermelons bulging and glistening in the sun. She passed various street performers: a mime; the famous roller blade guy playing
his guitar and singing; two acrobats, one doing a handstand on his squatting partner’s knees. And then the tattoo shop where the hummingbird had been etched into her hip after she ended it with
Graham. She’d wanted a tattoo reflective of freedom and a new start.
Gennie sometimes said she was like a hummingbird when she
worked and it had seemed like the perfect symbol.

Her thoughts turned to Ben. Would she have the chance to bring him here one day? She imagined him laughing at the antics, at the murals and shops with everything and anything one could imagine. Everything was big here, and bright, and loud. Ben would love it. He would laugh here. She knew it. They might sit at her favorite bar on a Saturday afternoon, wearing only their bathing suits and drinking beer and sneaking kisses between bites of curly fries and chicken wings. Imagining it, she filled with a physical longing she’d never before experienced, thinking of the life they could share, the way everything felt like an adventure with him.

She turned around, walking back toward her apartment. Men and women on rollerblades, runners, and bicyclists weaved around her. The sun was on her back now and she was able to gaze at the ocean without squinting. Her mother had loved the ocean, had loved Venice Beach. When Bella was ten and Drake sixteen, they came here for vacation, the only vacation she could ever remember taking. Her mother’s great aunt died and left several thousand dollars to them and instead of putting it in the bank, she’d surprised them both with a trip to California. They’d stayed, by accident really, in a dive motel in Venice that her mother had stumbled into a coupon for. The hotel was no longer there; it was torn down years ago and replaced by a nice hotel. But during the week they’d stayed there it had seemed to them a certain kind of paradise. All three enjoyed themselves, but perhaps her mother most of all. She’d seemed young that week and
carefree, surprisingly open to the alternative lifestyles of the
residents
of Venice. One afternoon, strolling the boardwalk and licking ice
cream cones, she’d pointed to a particularly bright mural depicting early California and said, “I dreamt of being an artist when I was a kid. Did I ever tell you that?”

She couldn’t remember if she or Drake had asked a follow-up question. Perhaps Drake had? He was older and more aware and curious about the time before she was their mother. But Bella was ten and distracted by her ice cream and the sea air that made her feel alive in a way the damp Seattle air could not. She’d vowed after that trip to come back to live with the colorful people and the sunshine
and palm trees, which were not native to California, Drake had
pointed out more than once. He was so pedantic when they were kids. Well,
he still was. People didn’t really change. Bella was still the wide-
eyed
child she’d been, enamored with the tan sand and blue water and
brown and green mountains of the coastline. And Drake was still wise and bossy.

An image came suddenly of that day with the ice cream. She’d
had strawberry, her mother peach (she loved anything peach
flavored), and Drake chocolate (he always ordered chocolate). They were all laughing and had stopped to sit on one of the benches that lined the
grass and overlooked the sandy beach. Why were they laughing? What she would give now to remember. Her mother wore a yellow
sundress and cheap flip-flops she’d gotten at the dollar store before they left. Bella could remember this, she thought, but not what they’d laughed so hard over.

She could see now her mother’s feet in those flip-flops. Bella had painted her toenails pink like the wild roses that bloomed in August in Seattle. Yes, her mother’s toes. Alice tossed the flip-flops aside and wriggled her toes in the grass. “Oh the grass tickles and this ice cream is so good,” she said, turning to look at Drake and then Bella. “You know something I’ve learned?”

“What’s that, mama?” asked Bella, biting into the sugar cone, wishing this ice cream could be like in a fairy tale, always refilling as soon as the last lick was done.

“It’s the smallest moments in life you remember, like this one,
just this perfect one with the ocean and the ice cream, and the grass and sitting with my two favorite people in the world. I’ll remember this for the rest of my life.” She stood in her bare feet on the grass and flung her arms wide. “Just take it in, my loves. Just take it in.”

Alice’s second toe was slightly longer than her big toe, just like
Bella’s. That small thing they shared was something Bella held onto even all these years later. Sometimes in bed, with the windows open and the sea breeze moving the white curtains she’d hung herself, she
would gaze at her feet and think,
some part of you is still here. It proves you were here. You gave me these crazy toes.
Drake’s daughter had had them too.

Bella’s eyes filled and she walked blindly for a moment until she spotted a bench. She sat and wiped her eyes, watching the waves come in one after the other.
The waves are slower here,
her friend from Florida had said to her once.
They come in less frequently,
Bella had replied,
but with more strength
.

How desperate her mother must have felt about money, alone
with two children. Why hadn’t her mother ever dated? Bella hadn’t really
thought of it before but she must have been lonely. Perhaps she
never
met anyone she liked well enough to bring him into her children’s
lives.
As it so often did when she thought of her mother’s sacrifices, the hollowness of loss and pain and regret was like something alive, emptying her insides until there was nothing but a cold mist
whipping and tugging there.

Her cell phone buzzed in her pants pocket. Peter. He’d reached each of the men on the phone and arranged times and places to meet them.

“I’ll be right there,” she said into the phone, leaving her memory
of peach ice cream and laughing next to the bench. For now. She
would visit it another day.

***

They were to meet Austin Blu first, at his Malibu home. It was
four in the afternoon as they headed out, Bella driving while Peter filled her in on what each of the men had said when he called. The coastal
highway was surprisingly uncongested and the sun low on the horizon, making diamonds on the blue water. This was one of Bella’s favorite drives. When she was heartsick over Graham, she often
drove this stretch of highway on a weekend afternoon, with the radio cranked and the windows open so the salt air could find its way to her. Not that it helped. Nothing had helped. When you love a married man there is no escape from the inevitable loneliness that comes when one chooses to participate in betrayal.

All the men had been surprisingly open to meeting with him, Peter told her as they approached Malibu.

“How did you get them to agree?” Bella asked, genuinely
curious. This Peter Ball was good at his job.

Peter smiled. “Well, for lack of a better explanation, I kept it
simple without revealing I have no jurisdiction over the case. Told them I
was a cop and knew they were being blackmailed. They all agreed,
rather quickly, to meet with me.”

“What about Rawley Hough?”

“He didn’t admit he was being blackmailed, like the others did. He was mostly silent but agreed to meet with us at his home office.”

“He’s involved, Peter. He has to be.”

“I agree. There’s no way it’s just a coincidence. Carrot Cop has
way too much incentive to pin this on Ben as a way to keep his
brother out of it.”

“Especially if Hough murdered her.”

“That’s right.”

Austin Blu lived in a gated community in one of the highest
priced
areas in the country: Malibu beach property. When they arrived at the gate, a middle-aged security guard with a substantial beer gut came out of a booth with a clipboard. “Yes, Mr. Blu was expecting them,” he said as the gate opened. “Last house at the property. A
terracotta with no windows on the driveway side.”

They found it easily, parking in the driveway near pots of blooming flowers. The house was rectangular and barren, very modern looking, except for white clematis climbing up the side of the house. Perched on the edge of a cliff, like many of the houses along the shore, with a trail around the house hinting at the Pacific Ocean and sandy beach
below.

Bella was surprised when Austin Blu answered the door. She’d expected staff of some kind since the man was listed as one of the richest men in the world. He had the standard long hair of a rocker, although artfully cut so that it lay just so, and blue eyes the color of
the ocean outside his magnificent windows. His nose was on the
long
side but it didn’t detract from what could only be described as attractive of the raw sexuality variety. Why would this man need to visit Madam Zinn’s girls? He could have any woman in the world. And there was his wife, the princess of romantic comedies. She was
the girl-next-door daydream of countless men across the country with her blond cap of curls and big blue eyes. And she had the type of personality so many men seemed to like: perky and sweet and nonthreatening. Bella assumed this was close to her real personality because actresses like
Carlie Cullen always played characters similar to their own. Regardless, Carlie Cullen was like gold at the box office.

Austin shook both their hands and motioned for them to come inside. The part of the house that faced the beach was floor to ceiling windows, giving the feeling that one was on the water as opposed to merely looking at it. The décor was angular and modern, accented with bright reds and yellows. Masculine, thought Bella. Did Carlie
live here with him? Was their marriage real or just for the press?
She’d been in Hollywood long enough to know it happened more often than the American public was aware of.

“Would you like something to drink?” She’d never heard him speak before and was surprised by his New Jersey accent. “There’s
sparkling water or regular water. No soda or booze. Carlie won’t allow it. Always worried about my sobriety. Well, and my caloric intake.” He was charming and surprisingly soft-spoken, with an intelligent glint in his eyes. Not what she’d expected, considering the
hard rock his band was known for.

“Is your wife here?” asked Peter, after declining the offer for a drink.

“No, she’s filming in Hawaii.” He indicated the sofa. “Please, come sit.”

They did so. He sat opposite them, picking up the electric guitar
from an ottoman. “It’s not plugged in, don’t worry,” he said,
grinning. “I won’t blast you.” He glanced toward the windows and then back to them. “How did you know someone was blackmailing me?”

“Had a tip from another man being blackmailed for the same thing,” said Peter. “How long had it been going on?”

“A month ago I got a call. The voice was distorted, you know, like they do in the movies. But she knew all the details and asked for $100,000 mailed to a P.O. box here in Los Angeles to keep quiet. I agreed, obviously. I didn’t want this out in the world.”

“Because of your wife?”

He shook his head, his eyes dull. “No, she knows. I met Carlie three years ago and have been faithful to her all that time. Carlie knows everything about me—the good, bad, and the ugly. And if you’ve done any research on my past, you know there’s a lot of bad
and quite a bit
of ugly. I used to be a frequent visitor to the ranch when I was still drinking but all that changed when I met Carlie. She’s the best thing that ever happened to me and there’s no way I’d mess that up at this
point. And we just found out she’s pregnant. I’m thrilled. Utterly thrilled.”