The Night Visitor (4 page)

“Thomas.” Evelyn crooked her finger at her daughter’s fiancé. “Be a doll and tell Richard to keep a leash on Richie and his friends. I saw them taking full advantage of the hosted bar. Richard’s in his office.”

Tom had noticed that lately his future mother
-
in
-
law was treating him like one of her minions. He’d indulge her for now. “Sure. Be right back.”

“How many people are you inviting to the wedding?” Cherry asked.

Rory was listening to the band, which she heard as clear as day. Even more acutely than that. “Oh, sorry. Thousands of guests, it seems. Thanks for coming. Have fun.”

Rory stepped under the portico and backed against a marble column. She was aware of conversations taking place far down the receiving line. She could easily make out the faces of people entering the villa gates a hundred yards away. Even the sounds and movements of the insects and small animals that roamed the grounds and skies resonated in her ears. She felt under the influence of something frightening yet oddly exhilarating. Foreign but familiar. She’d never felt so alive, but she’d also never felt so tenuous, so intently aware of the fragile threads that suspended her life, that made her all that she was. Superimposed over everything, like a film being projected without a screen, were the doves circling, their black eyes warning, taunting.

The message hit her like an epiphany.
I should have done more for Junior and Anya. If I had, it wouldn’t have come to this.

It was as clear as if someone had spoken into her ear, only the words had come from inside Rory’s head. Wouldn’t have come to what? The bad dreams, the guilt, the sense of doom just around the corner? Or to this strange, unsettling, but oddly wonderful awareness? To
what
?

She said aloud to the voice—whomever it was—to Junior, to Anya, to herself, “I’m sorry.”

8

A convoy of small buses picked up ball guests from the Rose Bowl parking lot and snaked through the twisting streets of the upscale neighborhood along the Arroyo Seco, spiraling up and up. They entered a private lane canopied by pepper trees, the ground littered with their berries, and stopped at the top of the tallest hill by the front gates of the Villa del Sol d’Oro.

The conversation was cheery on Danny’s bus. The summer evening air was dry and brittle, scented with sage and wild mustard. The sun had just dipped below the treetops, turning the sky violet.

Danny was standing in the rear of the bus, rocking back and forth on his heels. He stared down at the cleavage of the woman in the seat closest to him; she was wearing a low-cut gown. Her husband, beside her, cast a dirty look up at Danny.

Danny looked away and continued rocking on his heels. “Our moment’s close, bro. Sweet justice. Justice for you and me, Mom and Sylvia, and the kids. Especially for the kids.”

A man nearby turned to look at Danny talking to himself.

“Do I know you?” Danny asked him.

“I don’t believe so.”

“ ’Cause you’re acting like I know you or somethin’.”

“Just making sure you’re okay.”

“I’m okay. You okay?”

The man gave Danny a long look. “I’m very well.”

Nearby conversations slowed as people glanced to see what was going on.

Danny flashed his smile. “I’m just messing with you, man. No worries.”

“None here.” The man faced front. His wife spoke into his ear, stealing a peek at Danny.

Danny began coughing raggedly into his handkerchief. The tense moment passed and the guests again chattered with anticipation.

The villa dominated the hilltop with a sweeping view of the San Gabriel Valley to the east and downtown Los Angeles to the southwest.

A woman said, “This is so beautiful. If I look toward the hilltop and not back toward town, I can pretend we’re in Tuscany.”

A man commented, “All you have to do is look down at that layer of smog and you know you’re in the L.A. basin.”

People laughed.

Danny gingerly touched his lower back.

Another woman told her friend, “The villa is a replica in two-thirds scale of one that Richard Tate and his wife saw in Italy on their honeymoon. Not Richard Tate III, who lives at the villa now, but his father, Richard Junior. They took a yearlong honeymoon and went around the world. Can you imagine? Richard III did the same thing when he married.”

“Married Evelyn Langtry?” the woman with her asked.

“No. When he married his first wife, Abigail Barrett.”

“That’s right. Boo Barrett. She’s dead, isn’t she?”

“Ages ago, of cancer. I love following the Tates. It’s like watching the British royals.”

Junior, listen to them. Talking like this stuff matters. Like nothing bad will ever happen to that family of rich jerks. Like they’re blessed. This is her world. See her true colors?

Danny smoothed the front of his jacket, touching the gun stuck inside his waistband. It felt good. Hard and real.

Tonight, in front of all her beautiful people, she’s going to say, “I’m Rory Langtry and I’m a murderer.” And I’ll be judge, jury, and executioner. Finally, my brother, you can die in peace. I’ll see you on the other side, ’cause I know there’s no way I’m getting out of here alive.

There was a crush of people outside the villa’s gates. Media had gathered and were taking photos and interviewing celebrities. Dark-suited security guards oversaw the scene but were primarily concerned with keeping the paparazzi in line. Danny tagged along behind a group of younger people, smiling and laughing with them.

Guests checked in at a row of tables staffed by women and men dressed according to the ball’s theme. A photographer shot pictures of all the guests and logged names on a small audio recorder.

The villa’s apple-green front lawn was bordered by tall poplars. Mounds of pastel impatiens were set against foxgloves blooming with spires of bell-shaped white blossoms. Fountains in a reflecting pool rippled the water over sapphire-blue tiles. A red carpet had been unrolled along the driveway all the way up to the villa.

Danny picked up his table number. The photographer took his picture, held up the audio recorder, and asked his name. Danny brushed past him and proceeded up the red carpet with a jaunty stride. A gentle breeze tickled the fine hairs on his face. He was far from the party in the upper garden, but he heard music, talking, and laughter. He took in everything, enjoying his abnormally acute senses, feeling privileged to have received this gift, even at the cost of great personal sacrifice.

This makes it worth it, Junior. Living times two makes it so worth it—everything that’s happened, and everything that’s gonna happen.

He picked out Rory’s voice from the cacophony even though she wasn’t near. “Welcome to the TOV ball. Thanks for coming. Hello. Nice to see you.”

Walking toward the villa, Danny tuned in to her voice, shutting out everything else. She couldn’t see him. He was too far away. She wouldn’t recognize him anyway, he figured. But he could see her.

Too skinny for me, Junior. You always liked the skinny blondes.

He smiled.

Keep trying, bro. You’re not even a flicker in her mind.

He felt a hand on his elbow.

“Excuse me. Can you tell me where I might find the ladies’ room?” The man was asking for his wife, who was standing next to him.

“What? You think I work here?”

“Forgive me. I’m terribly sorry.”

“Pendejo.”

The couple frowned when Danny uttered the Spanish expletive and hurried away. Danny turned toward Rory to see her walk to the edge of the steps, scanning the crowd, a hand shielding her eyes against the setting sun. He could sense her anxiety, feel it palpitating through the air, like an off-key note in an otherwise perfect concerto.

“Son of a bitch, Junior.”

Danny ducked into a flower bed and squeezed between the poplars.

“You’ve got more juice left than I thought, my brother. I don’t want this to end before it starts. You can’t stop it. I know you don’t think I’m doing the right thing, but you gotta trust me.”

9

Tom heard ribald laughter and smelled cigar smoke coming from Richard Tate’s office in a corner of the villa. He approached the French doors and, through the glass panes, saw that the room was crowded with men. As soon as he stepped onto the brick porch, someone inside pulled a door open for him.

Richard Alvin Tate III, affectionately called Ratsy by his friends, was leaning back in a leather desk chair, his feet crossed on top of the desk. He waved Tom inside with a fly-fishing rod he held. “Come on in, old sport. Everyone know Tom Fuller, my future son-in-law? Tom, this is everyone. You know where the bar is. Take a cigar.”

The guys shouted greetings to Tom.

Tom apologetically raised his hands. “Let me first deliver my message from Evelyn—”

“Say no more, Tom. Consider it delivered. We’ll keep a lid on our festivities, and we won’t kill the messenger.” Richard raised his glass. “My wife, I love her, but…”

“As if I don’t have an interest in the success of this event,” said Richard Alvin Tate IV, known as Richie, the only child of Ratsy and his first wife, Boo. “Langtry Cosmetics is the sponsor, and I am the CEO.”

“The CEO,” several guys there repeated, mocking him.

“Shaddup.”

Tom noticed that Richie’s hands were covered with blotches of Mercurochrome and different sizes of Band-Aids. “What happened to you?”

Richie dismissively waved his almost-empty cocktail glass. “Lost my footing on those uneven stepping stones and stumbled into some rose bushes. I’m all scratched up, and Paige is almost in tears, not because
I’m
hurt but because of the roses. She’s going”—he raised his voice to imitate his wife—“ ‘How could you? That’s Elizabeth Taylor.’ ”

“You sorry SOB,” Richard said. “Evelyn’s going to have your hide for breaking her La Liz roses.”

One of Richie’s friends stood, picked up a brass letter opener, and tapped it against his glass, making the crystal ring. “Richie’s earned a new moniker: Dances with Roses.”

A howl went up.

Richie was sprawled in a deep chair near an open gun cabinet. He raised a hand, grinning. “I was just looking at the pictures of Anya they were showing on a screen, thinking about what a great piece of ass she was, and I lost my step.”

A guy said, “I still can’t see how anyone could have put a bullet in that face.”

A pall fell over the gaiety in the room.

“I knew when Anya bought that gun she’d get into trouble with it,” Richard said. “She was so happy when she got her concealed carry permit.”

“I helped her get it and I’ve spent many a night regretting that,” Leland Declues said. He was the Tate family’s attorney and Richard’s fraternity brother and longtime friend. He was a tall, lean man with a soft voice and gentle mannerisms that hinted at subcutaneous fierceness. “We went to Ventura County. Easier to get one there than in L.A.”

“She was a good shot,” Richard said. “I took her to the gun range.”

“She was good at many things.” Leland puffed his cigar.

The conversation dropped as everyone looked at Leland, waiting for more.

“I just meant she was a force of nature. She lit up any room she entered. She was fun to be around.” Leland held his cigar in front of him, admiring how the ash formed.

Richie got up and poured more scotch into his glass from a bottle on the bar. “How about how that sister of the idiot who murdered Anya is still stirring the pot? She was on the news today. The anniversary of the shootings gives her another opportunity to get her sorry face on television and go on and on about how her brother was framed by the wealthy and powerful Tate family to protect the real killer, Rory Langtry,” he said with faux drama in his voice. “Leland, can’t you do something to put a sock in her?”

“Best to ignore her,” Leland said. “Issuing a public response will only add fuel to the fire.”

Richard noticed Tom at the bar examining the label on a bottle and seized the opportunity to change the subject.

“Fifty-year-old Macallan,” Richard said. “Please, Tom. Indulge. I brought that back from our golf trip to Scotland. You won’t find a better single malt scotch, in my opinion. That is, unless you happen upon a classic Springbank. Having a dram of thirty-year-old or the very rare thirty-three-ye
ar-old Springbank is something to dream about.”

“Goes down easier than a Hollywood Boulevard whore,” Richie said.

Tom poured two fingers into a cut crystal glass. “No Old Tank Car Number Nine in your private bar, Richard?”

“Ha. Good one, Tom. That’s what I buy for the cook to drink, after I’ve put a Macallan label on it,” Richard said with a wink. “We’re planning another trip to Scotland. You’ll have to join us.”

“Tom, you’re in entertainment law, right?” Leland asked.

Using tongs, Tom took a single cube of ice from a bucket and dropped it into his glass. “Mostly.” He began looking at the guns in the cabinet. “A little corporate work too.” He set down his glass, shouldered a shotgun, and looked down the barrel. “Richard, what’s the effective range on this?”