By the time Iris, Liz, and Toni were ready to leave for Julie’s, everyone else in the office had already left. Everyone except Evan Finn.
Iris put on her suit jacket as she walked down the corridor, slipping her credit card into a pocket. Toni was close on her heels.
Liz leaned against Evan’s cubicle with one hand on the wall and the other petulantly dug into her hip. “Says he’s got too many things to do,” she said as Iris approached.
“Unacceptable,” Iris said sternly. She noticed Evan’s briefcase sitting open on his desk and tried not to seem too interested in it. Her eyes were drawn to it in spite of herself. “You’re going to turn down an invitation for drinks with three attractive women, one of whom is paying?” She pulled out the gold card and waved it in front of him.
Evan smiled. His mouth pulled slightly higher to one side, deepening his dimple there and giving him a rakish air. Iris thought she heard a tiny swoon emitted by Toni, who was standing close beside her.
“I suppose I should spend some time getting to know my boss a little better,” he said. “And my coworkers.”
Liz clamped her manicured fingers on Evan’s shoulder and playfully shook it. “That’s right. There’s a time for work and a time for play. We frown on workaholics around here, don’t we, Iris?”
Iris faked choking.
“Don’t we, Iris?” Liz persisted.
“Absolutely.”
“Sold,” Evan said as he stood and took his jacket from a hanger on a hook attached to the back of his cubicle. “But I didn’t have a chance, did I?”
“Evan, this is Toni Burton.”
Evan shook the hand that Toni only too happily offered.
With Evan momentarily distracted, Iris stared more pointedly into his briefcase. After snooping as much as she dared, she noticed that Liz was looking at her. Liz winked and Iris wondered if she’d figured out what was on her mind. Iris’s cheeks colored with the thought. Then she realized it was her guilty conscience getting the better of her. Liz couldn’t possibly know what she was thinking. She was just winking to be friendly. She was always winking at people. She approached life as if it were one big party and she were the life of it.
“So what do you guys think of this cigar craze?” Toni asked.
“It’s just awful,” Liz proclaimed in her typically dramatic way. “We certainly don’t need to encourage people in such a filthy habit.”
Evan slipped on his jacket and Iris saw the Armani label.
“Personally, I’m glad to see it,” Evan said. “I’ve always enjoyed a good cigar. Until now, people looked at you like you were a leper if you lit up.”
“I think it’s fun,” Toni piped in, not wanting to be left out.
Iris saw Evan put his hand on the top of his open briefcase and start to press it closed and, presumably, locked.
“Oh, leave it,” she said to him. “I’m just going down for a few minutes myself. I have a ton of work to do.”
Evan hesitated, but before he could put up a struggle, Liz had crooked her arm through his and was sweeping him down the corridor. “Come on, mystery man. Leave your work behind.”
Toni rushed to snag Evan’s other arm. Iris walked behind them.
“Mystery man?” Evan said. “Is that what you think of me?”
“That’s what we think of you,” Liz confirmed. “Is that the image you wanted to create?”
“Of course not,” Evan protested. “My life’s an open book and pretty uninteresting.”
“Hmmm,” Liz said skeptically.
“Hmmm?” Evan repeated. “What does hmmm mean?”
“It means I think you protest too much.”
At the elevator, Iris pressed the call button.
“How about you, Iris?” Evan asked, changing the subject. “You smoke cigars?”
“Oh yeah. The day’s not right unless I get my stogie in.”
Evan narrowed his eyes and peered at Iris, as if trying to visualize something. “A cigarillo. Yes, definitely. Be a nice counterpoint to your girl-next-door looks.” His dimple deepened when he smiled at her.
You devil you, Iris thought. Flirting with your boss? You’re a bold SOB. She let his comment and his gaze drop as she turned to walk into the elevator. It was empty. She pressed the button for the lobby.
“What about me, Evan? What sort of cigar would go with my all-American, girl-next-door looks?” Liz asked with a twinkle in her eye as she moved to the back of the elevator. She was anything but girl-next-door looking and she knew it. Her self-deprecating wit was one of the things that Iris especially loved about her.
“For you, I think an eight-inch, thickly wrapped Havana.”
“Don’t they come any longer than that?” Toni asked, sounding disappointed. “Can’t a girl at least get twelve inches?”
The three of them laughed. Iris would have too, but suddenly remembered that she was the boss. “This conversation’s getting a little suggestive for the workplace.”
Almost to herself she said, “It can be boring to be the boss.”
The elevator stopped several times to pick up passengers, who observed elevator etiquette and quietly stood facing the front with their arms straight down at their sides. Iris’s group talked raucously behind them.
“Oh, Iris,” Liz scolded. “Your mind immediately goes straight to the gutter.”
Toni added, “You were just telling me that sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.”
Iris leaned against a corner of the elevator. “Hmmm.”
“Now she’s saying it, too,” Evan said. “What does hmmm mean?”
“She likes to stand off to the side and quietly observe people.” Liz cupped her hand against her mouth and in a loud stage whisper said, “You may not know this, but around the office, Miss Thorne is known as the Ice Princess.”
Evan looked at Iris as if he were seeing her for the first time. “Is that so?”
Toni came to Iris’s defense. “You guys…Iris isn’t icy and she certainly doesn’t act like a princess.”
“I would consider that nickname a compliment,” Evan said. “She coolly sits back and appraises a situation. It means she’s thoughtful and not a woman of brash action. I can definitely see it.”
Iris arched an eyebrow at him.
“Iris, brash?” Liz said. “Ha! Why, you’d never think to use those two words in the same sentence.” She gave Iris a playful shove. It was an inside joke. Over the years, Liz had seen Iris brashly throw herself headfirst into a variety of situations, only pausing to consider the consequences after it was too late.
Evan again sized up Iris with his sable-colored eyes. No doubt about it, she decided, he was flirting with her. He definitely had that je ne sais quoi. Sex appeal. Animal magnetism. Whatever one wanted to call it, Evan Finn had it in spades and he knew it. He knew he could push the envelope with women and they’d let him. Lord, yes, would they. There was something about this man that was sending her radar on overload. He was trouble. And he worked for her. She defiantly met his bold stare.
Finally, Iris said, “How long are you guys going to stand there and talk about me in the third person like I’m not even here?”
“As long as you let us.” Liz laughed.
The elevator reached the lobby and everyone spilled out. The lobby was darker than usual, the rain preventing the sunlight from filtering through the skylights installed three stories up. They rounded a corner and were met with laughter and animated talking. It was on the early side of happy hour, which was almost always two hours long, but the crowd and the cigar smoke had already poured into the lobby.
Evan gallantly pushed his way through, cutting a path for the ladies. Toni was close behind, resting her hand on his back, presumably not to lose him in the crowd. The McKinney Alitzer group, who had taken over one end of the large, oval bar, let out a hurrah at the sight of their missing compatriots. They were especially glad to see Iris. They had taken full advantage of her largesse and had ordered ample hors d’oeuvres, premium booze, and good cigars. They’d promised the establishment that a credit card was due to arrive.
Iris presented her credit card to the bartender. “Could you please run a tab for the McKinney Alitzer group? And I’ll have a glass of the house chard.”
Liz pressed in front of Iris, who was cramming a piece of garlicky focaccia into her mouth. “The house cab, please.”
“What would you like?” Evan asked Toni.
“Diet Coke.”
“That it shall be.” He leaned over the crowd and shouted to the bartender. “A Diet Coke and what kind of Scotch do you have?”
“Glenfiddich and Glenlivet.”
“I’ll have Glenfiddich, straight up.”
Amber Ambrose was posed on a barstool with her legs crossed, holding court. “There’s plenty of money to be made in a bear market. The stocks of security firms haven’t stopped skyrocketing since the crash of TWA Flight 800 and the bombing at the Atlanta Olympics.” She took a sip of her mineral water with lime.
Evan passed Toni her Diet Coke.
Toni tapped her glass against his. “Here’s looking at you.”
“And at you,” he smiled back.
“Where are you from?” she asked.
“I was raised in California.”
Toni smiled flirtatiously at him, but he seemed more interested in Amber’s conversation.
“Amber’s made a fortune capitalizing on life’s dark side,” Kyle explained to Toni and Evan. His long lips twitched with amusement. “She was one of the first to leap on companies specializing in hospice care.”
Amber defended herself. “With the aging of the population and no cure for AIDS in sight, hospices are only going to become more important. You should have got in on Compcare’s IPO when I told you about it. From an opening price of eleven dollars, it’s been holding steady around forty-five.”
Kyle continued, enjoying rattling Amber’s cage. “Now Amber’s hawking the stock of a firm that opened a chain of shops that sell spy equipment—listening devices, stun guns, invisible ink, bulletproof clothing—I don’t know what all.”
“I’m just leaping on a trend,” Amber responded. “The point I was trying to make was that there’s plenty of money to be made in a bear market.”
“I agree with that,” Evan interjected.
Everyone seemed surprised that he had joined in.
“Lately, the bear market doomsayers are enjoying talking about how overvalued blue chips are now and how a similar situation existed in ‘73 when the market peaked at a thousand fifty-one. By December of ‘74, the Dow had plunged to five hundred seventy-seven, a forty-five percent drop. It took almost ten years for the index to get back to its 1973 peak.”
A pall fell over the group. The brokers silently stared into their drinks. Few were old enough to remember the last great bear. Most had entered the profession during the nineties bull market in which all boats floated. The seasoned veterans who had survived shared war stories.
“The blue chips turned into blue gyps,” one man said.
Another shook his head. “Between ‘73 and ‘84, stocks were cold. People were putting their money into oil partnerships and real estate.”
“Everything you bought just sat there and looked at ya.”
Evan sipped his Scotch and set the glass back on the bar. “But Amber’s right—there’s money to be made in a bear market. During every year since ‘75, the NASDAQ composite rose. The smaller companies were able to react much faster to changing economic conditions. Even blue chips did well if they sold for a low price-to-earnings ratio.” He picked up his glass again.
Iris was impressed. Evan knew his stuff.
Toni seemed awestruck.
“We have to work smarter,” Amber said. “The key is to diversify: big and small, growth and value, and don’t forget the foreign issues.”
Iris picked up her almost full wineglass from the bar. “Foreign markets frequently move in the opposite—” She quickly turned and bumped into Evan, spilling both his drink and her own on him. “I’m so sorry!”
Toni immediately procured a napkin and started dabbing Evan’s suit.
Iris set her wineglass on the bar, plucked Evan’s glass from his hand and told the bartender, “Another Scotch, please,” as she grabbed the napkins he offered. She joined Toni in patting napkins against the spilled booze on Evan’s suit, at the same time managing to conceal Evan’s empty glass in a napkin and handing it to Liz, who was standing next to her. “Hold this,” she whispered.
“Ladies, c’mon,” Evan protested. “I like all the attention, but please...”
Iris gave Toni a quick shove. “Why don’t you go over by the rest rooms where there’s more light?”
Toni didn’t need any encouragement. She grabbed Evan’s hand and led him away from the crowd.
Iris turned to Liz, “Keep the party going. I’ll be back in a minute.” She took the glass from Liz and slipped it inside her jacket, holding it under her armpit.
“What are you up to?”
“I’ll be back in a few. If anyone asks, tell them I had to make a phone call.”
Iris cautiously walked through the sales department. Apparently, everyone who hadn’t gone to Julie’s had left for home. She deposited Evan’s glass, still wrapped in the napkin, in her briefcase.
Wasting no time, she went to Evan’s cubicle. Before she touched anything in his briefcase, she formed a mental picture of its position so she’d be able to return it to the exact location. She started rummaging. Her initial examination yielded nothing out of the ordinary: today’s Wall Street Journal, a rubber-banded stack of personal bills, a Business Week, and a thick list of names and telephone numbers. From a pocket in the top, she pulled a manila folder full of sheets of light blue paper in a heavy bond. She rifled them with her thumb. The Canterbury Investments stationery letterhead was imprinted in raised navy blue letters and gave a West Los Angeles street address.
She jumped when she thought she heard the front door open, almost dropping the stack of papers. The stationery was printed with statements of account activity, not unlike those issued by McKinney Alitzer or any financial services firm. They tracked buys, sells, dividends, and changes in market value of individual investors’ portfolios for the previous month.
Iris selected one that showed a fair amount of activity and took it to the photocopy machine on the other side of the suite near the lunchroom. She’d made her copy and was on her way to put the original back when she heard the soft whine of the suite’s glass front door opening. She turned and saw Evan walking toward her.
She continued past Evan’s desk and proceeded to her office, folding the statement and photocopy into small squares as she walked.
“Hey,” Evan called to her. “Thought you were making a phone call downstairs.”
She shoved the papers into her jacket pocket. “It was too noisy.”
He walked over to her. “I wanted to thank you for inviting me to have a drink with you guys.”
“I’m sorry I spilled it on you.”
“Don’t worry about that. I’m glad you talked me into coming.”
She jammed her thumb into her pocket, forcing down a blue edge of paper that was still visible. “It was my pleasure. Welcome aboard.”
“What luck I’ve had lately. One minute, I’m new to L.A. without a job, and the next thing I know, Sam Eastman’s offering me a big signing bonus.”
“Five thousand dollars, right?” Iris wanted to make sure she was clear on what Evan considered big.
“Five thousand?” Evan made a face. “Try fifty thousand.”
Iris gaped at him then quickly recovered. “Fifty?”
“You didn’t know?”
“No, no, of course I…ah…You must have been pleased to find out you’re worth that much in the marketplace.”
“Heck, yeah. I know I have tremendous potential, but I’m new in the industry and don’t have much of a track record yet so I was surprised that you and Sam thought I was worth that much.”
“Fifty is good dough.” She casually leaned against a sales assistant’s desk. “How did you get connected with Sam Eastman?”
“Yale Huxley at the firm where I used to work gave Sam a call.” He eyed her boldly. “I get the impression you weren’t aware that Sam was recruiting me.”
Iris tried to meet his stare as she had in the elevator, but couldn’t make it stick. Her gaze darted away. She couldn’t tell him the truth, that against her better judgment she’d caved in to Sam’s wishes thinking she’d score a political gain. “Of course I was.”
His brown eyes still rested on her. “Okay.”
She could tell he didn’t believe her. She was a lousy liar.
“You run a nice office.” He walked to his cubicle.
She hopped after him, hearing him snap the brass fasteners on his briefcase closed just as she reached his desk. “Aren’t you going back down to join the party?”
“I’ve got too many things to do. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He grabbed the handle of the black leather briefcase, swung it off the desk, and walked down the corridor, turning to wave as he disappeared into the reception area.
She shouted, “See you tomorrow.”
After she heard the glass door swing open on its creaky hinge then close again, she pulled the Canterbury Investments statement from her pocket.
Kip Cross sat behind an antique wood desk in a cozy room of his house that Bridget had used as her office. Exposed beams lined the ceiling. A stone fireplace extended the entire length of the room. The furniture was overstuffed and comfortable. The turquoise blue shutters that decorated the windows of every room of the house were closed here. Rain pounded against them. It had been raining all day with no end in sight.
The only light in the room was given by the eucalyptus logs burning in the fireplace and the computer monitor on the desk. Kip hadn’t touched the keyboard for many minutes and a screen-saver displayed exploding fireworks. He stared at the screen without seeing it, his right hand massaging his left eyebrow, his upper body rocking, the rhythm as steady as a metronome.
He suddenly looked at the ceiling as if he’d only then become aware of the pounding rain. He scanned the ceiling, listening, as if the rain were speaking to him. He slowly rose from the chair, unlocked the iron bolt lock on the thick door, and walked into the arched main corridor of the house. It was faintly illuminated by electric candle sconces set along the walls. He crossed the tiled foyer, went down the three steps that led to the family room, his rubber flip-flops squeaking slightly against the tiles, opened one of the French doors that led to the patio, and walked into the rain. His jeans and T-shirt quickly became soaked.
In the pool house, he removed the long, hooked pole from the wall. At the patio gate, he entered the code to deactivate the alarm and stepped outside onto the cement staircase. The rain was pounding so hard, the narrow, gray stairs were almost invisible. There was no moon or other natural or artificial light to guide him, but he had been up and down those stairs so many times that he didn’t need light.
He hopped down sixteen steps, the rainwater swirling around his ankles, until he reached the fifty-fourth step up from Capri Road. There he wriggled between the steel railings. The blanket of dead leaves and pine needles had been washed away, leaving slick mud behind. His flip-flops created a suction with the mud, almost causing him to pitch face-forward as he struggled to walk. He finally pulled the rubber shoes from his feet and stretched to set them on the stairs, where they were quickly washed away by the rushing water.
Grasping the mud with his toes and using the pole end of the pool hook as a cane to avoid slipping, he walked to the storm drain, struggling to remain upright on the steep slope. He set the pool hook on the ground next to the drain, quickly grabbing it again before the light plastic was swept down the hill. He awkwardly tucked the pole under his arm and straddled the drain. He pulled the drain sections apart without too much difficulty as the rain had worked fine sand underneath the sleeve that held them together. Water rushed from the drain’s open end. He slipped onto his knees. He got up, fed the hook inside the drain, and pulled it out, finding nothing. It had been washed clean. He angrily kicked the drain with his bare foot, almost losing his balance.
Leaning on the pool hook with one hand and trailing his other against the stair railing for balance, he inched his way down the muddy hillside. The open end of the drain jutted over the edge of a retaining wall four feet above the street. He climbed over the wall and jumped down to the street below. His arms and legs were covered in mud. He looked to the left and right. It was the wee hours of the morning and the houses along the street were dark. No one was around.
He fed the pole into the open end of the drain, fished around, and pulled it out—coming up with nothing but wet debris. He was standing in a pile of wet leaves, pine needles, and mud that had washed from the drain. He dragged the hook around in it, finally hitting something solid. He dug his hands in the muck and pulled out a handgun.