SINCE PAUL KNEW about the Jaguar and the other car in Sebastian’s garage, a Tesla that hadn’t been outfitted for security protection, Sebastian needed another ride. He called the company he had used to turn his Jaguar into a tank, got the owner on the phone, and told him he needed a new vehicle, best one he had, preferably an SUV, and the requirements he needed. Price wasn’t an issue, Sebastian said.
The owner said he had on the lot a Range Rover that would fit Sebastian’s needs. Sebastian didn’t balk at the price. He wired the money to the man’s account and then went to the garage, where the Jaguar was parked, and transferred the equipment he needed into the trunk.
Faye drove him to the real estate office, Sebastian thinking about Maya, what had happened to her. Everyone around him had left, and the ones who had stayed behind were getting picked off by Paul. It should have bothered him—should have sent him into a rage—but he had something far more important to focus his attention on, something to live for now.
Sebastian had come close to doing business with Wayne Dixon—close enough that they had gotten to the financial stage. He found Dixon’s information on the office computer. A property search revealed that Dixon was, in fact, the owner of a home in Santa Paula. Sebastian wrote down the addresses of all his properties, and all of Dixon’s phone numbers. He started with the private numbers, having to deal with secretaries who eventually got him in touch with Dixon’s personal assistant, a young-sounding guy named Hollis Little.
Sebastian explained who he was, told him he had to get in touch with Dixon regarding a property coming up for sale, one that Dixon had had his eye on for a long time. A property that wouldn’t remain on the market long.
“Mr. Dixon is unavailable at the moment,” Little said. “Does he have your number?”
“The reason why I’m calling is, I want to know if he’s up north, at his place in Santa Paula.” Sebastian gave him the address. “I need to drop off some information he asked for, and he’s not answering his phone.”
“Well, I’m sure if you leave a message—”
Sebastian had anticipated this. “The wildfires have knocked down a lot of cell towers, and reception is spotty up that way, I’ve heard. How is the wildfire situation up there—do you know? We talking mandatory evacuation or what?”
“No, not mandatory.”
“Look, I’m not trying to get you into any trouble. Wayne was insistent that I hand deliver this stuff to him, so that he can review the material and then ask me questions. I’ve got to do it now or he won’t have a chance to get in on this property. Just tell me if he’s there or not. I don’t want to take a drive all the way up there for nothing.”
“He’s been there all week,” Little said, “but you didn’t hear that from me.”
Traveling by helicopter would be the quickest way. He called the places Ron had used in the past—even dropped Ron’s name—but all the birds were spoken for. The ones that weren’t already booked for business were up north, the pilots pitching in against the wildfires, which left Sebastian with one option: traveling by car.
He took a Mac with a wireless Internet card from his office. Faye drove him to the car dealer who specialized in turning cars into nearly indestructible tanks. There, he picked up the Range Rover.
In the garage, he transferred the equipment, loaded in duffel bags, from the trunk to a special compartment in the back of the Rover. Faye, seated behind the wheel, watched him in the rearview mirror.
After he was finished, he slid into the passenger seat. “You in the mood to take a drive?”
“Santa Paula, I take it. To see Wayne Dixon.”
“I’m told he’s at home. And like Candice said, the property in Santa Paula is very isolated. It’s the perfect place to keep carriers.”
“Besides Ava’s daughter, how many does Paul have? A dozen? More?”
“I don’t have an exact number. Frank and I . . . we thought it might be at least six.”
“Isn’t a wildfire raging somewhere up there?”
“Not directly in Santa Paula. One you’re thinking about—it’s sixty percent contained. I went online and checked.”
“Why are we going? That seems like a task more suited for someone like Ron Wolff.”
“He’s tied up with some other pressing matters. And we’re closer.”
Faye studied him for a moment. He could see her eyes working behind her sunglasses.
“Paul scared him off, didn’t he?” she said. “That’s why your house was empty this morning.”
“This is the most solid lead I’ve had in a while, and I plan on looking into it. I need to find him.” And Grace, he added privately. He had to be the one to find his daughter, deliver her to Ava.
“Showing up there, just the two of us,” Faye said. “What if he’s got a small army?”
“I’ve got us covered.”
“Bullets don’t work against wildfires.”
“We’re not driving into one. We’re driving around one. Huge difference. We’ll be fine. I checked the roads online, by the way. The ones we need are still open.”
“For the moment.”
“You said you wanted to rise through the ranks, get a top position. Well, this is the price of admission.”
Faye stared off at the traffic in the distance.
“I’m offering you the chance to create your own future,” Sebastian said. “And I’ll do everything I can on my end to help you find out what happened to your brother.”
Faye turned back to him.
“I’ll drive,” she said, opening the door.
Santa Paula was an hour away without traffic.
Three hours later, they were still twenty miles out.
On the radio, a female newscaster was discussing the various wildfires in California. The worst one, the Sierra Fire, named because it had originated in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, had already burned its way past the small, quiet, and idyllic town of Paradise, located in the northern part of the state—a good five hundred or so miles from Santa Paula. The wildfire was so bad, so swift, and so crazy out of control that National Guard helicopters and military C-130 airplanes were being brought in to help fight it.
The Sierra Fire was dominating the news. Sebastian was more interested in the Creek Fire. That one had started on Mud Creek Road near Steckel Park, which was to the north of Santa Paula, five or so miles away. There was no mention of the severity of the fire, whether or not it was contained, as he had read online back at the house that it was.
Still, what he’d read about the Creek Fire being contained—that could change, thanks to the unpredictability of the Santa Ana winds.
The National Weather Service used a color-coded system for wind strength. Last night, the color-code had gone from red, the designation for high winds, to the never-before-used purple, which signified extreme. The merciless and unrelenting mountain winds had produced gusts of more than eighty miles per hour—the strength of a Category 1 hurricane. Those same winds were expected to come into the region again later tonight. They, combined with the dry land and lack of humidity, were breathing new life into all the wildfires, but especially into the Sierra Fire.
Faye turned down the radio. “Question,” she said, her tone cautious, seeing if it was okay for her to talk. She had been unusually quiet over the past few hours, Sebastian figuring she sensed his bottled rage, didn’t want to be the one to ignite it.
Sebastian cocked his head to her.
“MLS,” she said. “That’s a real estate term, right?”
Sebastian nodded. “Multiple Listing Service. Why?”
“That day I met Paul, Anton brought along a folder with him. It was full of pictures of commercial properties for sale, I think. It didn’t say that, but it had something with ‘MLS’ written along the top.”
“How many properties?”
“At least a dozen. They didn’t contain much in the way of information, just pictures of the property, an address—the kinds of things I’m guessing you’d find in an online listing. There was one that was different, though. A listing for a house in Ojai.”
He’d never been there. Ojai was a small city set in a valley in the Topatopa Mountains, a tourist hub for people who were into art galleries and New Age bullshit shops and spas where you got rubbed down with lava stones and given coffee enemas.
“Why I remembered it,” Faye said, “is because Anton wrote on the paper. It said, ‘Chauncey Harrington, seventy-two, eighty-seven point six mil, paper.’ That name mean anything to you?”
It didn’t. Sebastian grabbed the Mac, balanced it on his lap, and plugged “Chauncey Harrington” into Google.
The guy didn’t have his own Wikipedia page, but there had been several stories about him over the years, mainly about his paper empire, which he had sold ten years ago for close to ninety million dollars. The most recent story had included Harrington’s age: seventy-two.
Sebastian shared his findings.
Faye said, “Candice Jackson mentioned Ojai—remember?”
“Right, but then she said she was sure it was Santa Paula.”
“She also said she was really messed up, didn’t remember much. And remember, Anton was thinking about going into business with Paul. What if Paul told him the name of his investor? If he did, Anton would have checked the guy out.”
Sebastian thought about Paul’s last phone call, Paul telling him he didn’t want the money anymore. Had Paul found his angel investor?
“This guy may know where Paul is,” Faye said. “We should talk to him.”
“Got to find out where he lives first.”
“I know the address.” Faye gave it to him.
“You always memorize random addresses?”
“It was the only residential property Anton had in that stack, which is why I remember it. That and the writing.”
Was she telling him the truth? After her Academy Award–winning performance with Candice Jackson, he wasn’t sure he trusted her.
But he needed her for this.
“I think we should go to Ojai first,” she said, “follow up on that lead.”
Sebastian decided to play along. “Why’s that?”
“It just . . . feels right.”
“Ojai is further northwest. Hold on a sec—I’m reading something here. . . . Okay, it says Ojai has been without power for the past two days. Electric company shut it down as a preemptive measure against the winds.” Some of the worst wildfires in the state’s history had been caused when the high Santa Ana winds either blew trees and branches into power lines, sparking fires, or snapped distribution poles and sent live wires onto the dry grass nearby.
“Santa Paula,” Sebastian said, “still has power.”
Faye said nothing, locked in thought, her face blank.
What if Paul is in Ojai—with Grace?
What if he’s already moved his carriers somewhere else?
What if he’s in the process of moving them not from Santa Paula but from Ojai?
What if, what if, what if—the words thrumming through his head and hammering his heart, Sebastian wanting to scream at Faye to slam her foot on the gas and barrel through the goddamn traffic.