Die in Plain Sight (3 page)

Southern California

Tuesday afternoon

G
lass walls on all sides of Savoy Tower’s penthouse conference room showed the colorful sprawl of Moreno County’s high-tech industrial parks, world-class shopping centers, skeins of freeways, and subdivisions that ranged from six-bedroom McMansions to luxury beach condos for the itinerant and truly rich. Low mountains, chaparral-choked canyons, rolling hills where white-faced cattle grazed, citrus groves, strawberry fields, marinas, and a few highly endangered saltwater marshes were interlaced like fingers through the various developments. Bounded by mountains to the northeast and ocean to the southwest, the Savoy Ranch was both fulcrum and lever of a power that reached to the state governor and the United States Senate, and had a hefty down payment on the present vice president.

The portrait above the head of the sleek cherry conference table was as imposing as the view: old man Benford Savoy himself, the merchant who had made a fortune selling twelve-dollar eggs and thirty-dollar
women to forty-niners. Mining gold from other men’s pockets was a lot easier than crouching in icy water and panning for gold from “can see to can’t see.”

Benford had taken the gold and bought up an old Spanish land grant. Land and wealth had passed from generation to Savoy generation for almost one hundred years without a hitch. Said hitch was the third generation’s bride, Sandra Wheaten Savoy, who had the gall to leave part of her Savoy inheritance to her sister’s children. It was an irritant to have someone “not of the blood” sit on the board of Savoy, Inc., but when the cause was important enough, those of proper Savoy blood unbent enough to acknowledge their shirttail Pickford cousins.

Another hitch in the proud Savoy tradition occurred in that same generation. Benford Savoy III, called Three by his close friends, had the bad fortune to beget a daughter rather than a son for his one and only child. The next best thing to a son was to have his daughter marry the son of an old friend. Gem Savoy and Ward Forrest duly tied the knot. And if they didn’t live happily ever after, they multiplied in a way their parents and grandparents hadn’t. Four children came along in short order. Two of them contracted severe cases of Moonie religion and were completely excised from the family. Not even cards at birthdays or Christmas.

That left the much married Bliss and her younger brother, Savoy, to play tug-of-war with the family fortunes. Bliss’s interest in running the family business was erratic. When she was between husbands and/or lovers, she meddled in her brother’s business life and ignored her three grown children. Savoy managed to keep his marriages to two and his off-spring to three.

The six cousins weren’t present at today’s important meeting for the simple reason that as long as Bliss and Savoy lived, corporate control was theirs. Like their own father, Savoy and Bliss were very much alive. The Savoy Curse of accidental death hadn’t visited them, probably because they weren’t as reckless as some of their ancestors.

The chair at the head of the conference table was empty when the door at the far end of the room opened. With a nod here and a word of greeting there, Savoy Forrest walked confidently to the waiting chair. His dark blond hair was like his clothes—casual, expensively cut, and hinting of the sun that flooded southern California’s saints and sinners with equal light and warmth.

Bliss closed the book she’d been reading,
Powerful Women in the Twenty-first Century
, and glanced at her solid gold digital watch, which she always wore with the gold-and-diamond heart design bracelet she’d inherited from her mother along with a diamond necklace that showed well at the opera. “You’re seven minutes and forty-four seconds late.”

“Thanks, Blissy,” he said, putting a thick folder on the table. “I gave the governor your best regards.”

“Fuck her.”

“She’d be one of the few you’ve missed,” Rory Turner said.

“Fuck you.”

“Been there, done that, remember?”

“No,” Bliss said. “Was it good for you?”

The rest of the people around the conference table sighed, shifted, or looked impatient, depending on their mood. In addition to being sheriff of Moreno County, Rory was one of Bliss’s four ex-husbands. The other three had taken their money and run for more welcoming pastures. Rory hadn’t. The two of them fought more now than they had when they were married. But since this was family rather than civil business, Rory had changed into a suit and tie and left the khaki uniform at his office.

“Thanks for the update,” Savoy said ironically to the two of them. “Can we keep it above the belt while we take care of business?”

Rory shrugged and smiled. “Sorry. Old habits and all that.”

Bliss ignored her ex-husband. She’d had a lot of experience doing that, as Rory had worked for her father before, during, and after their marriage. Ward Forrest had never quite forgiven her for divorcing Rory, “the only one of the lot with balls.” She had to admit that the sheriff did indeed have an impressive pair, but he never used them on her behalf outside of sex.
Yes sir
was all he ever said to his father-in-law. It was pretty much the same when it came to her brother, too.

What was the point of having a badge and a gun if all you did was kiss ass?

Savoy looked around the table. As always, at least one of the Pickford arm of the “family” was present. Sandra Wheaten Savoy’s nephew Steven the accountant or his son Jason the lawyer didn’t miss a meeting, or a trick, when it came to making sure that the Pickfords’ fifteen percent of the action produced every possible dime of money. Today it was
Steven who waited to argue pennies, his eyes and pencils sharp, calculator at the ready.

Also present and ready to fight were the Savoy Sharks, the two New York lawyers who kept minutes, digital recordings, and score at every Savoy Enterprises meeting. The men had names, but only Savoy remembered them. To the rest of the family, lawyers were as interchangeable as they were important.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Savoy said to them.

Both lawyers smiled graciously. They were on retainer and Savoy Forrest was the man who signed their checks.

“The governor wanted to know if she could count on our support for her re-election,” Savoy continued, looking around the table. “I assured her that she could.”

Bliss made a rude noise and smoothed her hair, which was several shades of blond and cost four hundred bucks a month to keep that way. She resented the governor because she kissed Savoy’s ass instead of hers. But then, so did everyone else at the table except Pickford. He was simply a pain in everyone’s ass. He liked the governor well enough, though. She’d quietly pushed some amendments through the state legislature that resulted in a tax windfall for Savoy Ranch—and thus for the Pickfords’ fifteen percent. The vice president of the United States was trying to do the same for the Savoy Ranch at the federal level.

“Now, for the first item of business,” Savoy said, shuffling through the soft leather folder in front of him and pulling out papers. “You know how honored the Savoy-Forrest family is that the Savoy California Impressionist Museum has been selected to receive the—”

“Christ,” Pickford said loudly, “is this going to cost us more money? At last count you’d spent twenty million of our corporate money building a museum and acquiring so-called art for your private collection of—”

“Not private,” cut in one of the Savoy Sharks. “The museum is a tax-exempt, nonprofit organization funded and run by Savoy Enterprises for the cultural enrichment of the community, county, state, and nation. The museum is open to the public on a regular, published basis and—”

“Spare me the legal bullshit,” Pickford said over the lawyer’s words. “Everyone knows that Savoy Forrest and his daddy pick all the paintings and some of them hang in the Savoy Museum Wednesday through Saturday. Only fifteen paintings are on display at any one time, and you’ve
got more than two hundred of the things. If that isn’t private use of Savoy Enterprises money, it sure as hell looks like it to me.”

“Your legal opinion didn’t hold up in court,” one lawyer said coolly, shooting his cuff.

“Only because Savoy Forrest owns the bench and the honorable ass on it.”

“Thank you for your input, as always,” Rory said. “Do drive safely and well within the speed limit on your way home.”

Pickford shifted his suit coat and shut up for the moment.

Savoy reached out, checked his sister’s watch, and said, “Almost thirty seconds without an argument. A new record. My compliments, Steven.”

Rory snickered.

Bliss bit her lip against a smile. Savoy knew just how to jerk the Pickford chain and look innocent as an egg while doing it.

Savoy lit a cigarette and waited. Smoke rose swiftly, sucked away by the air-filtration system.

No one spoke.

“Shall we try for thirty-one?” he asked.

“Just cut to the chase,” Pickford said, tapping his well-manicured fingers on the table. “This isn’t a press conference called to congratulate the
true
Savoy blood on their civic virtue. You have the power, so you have a tax-exempt hobby that takes money away from taxpayers in general and the Pickford family in particular. Next topic, please.”

“You’re welcome to visit the museum,” Rory said. “I’ll make sure you get a free pass.”

Pickford gave him a slicing sideways look.

Savoy drew on his cigarette, then placed it in the smokeless ashtray Bliss had nagged him into using. “I’m afraid the next topic won’t please you, Steven. This board has been invited to host a table at the Friends of Moreno County charity dinner and auction.”

“Charity is only free if you’re poor,” Pickford said. “How much will it cost?”

“Ten thousand dollars for a party of eight.”

Pickford rolled his eyes: fifteen percent of $10,000 was $1,500.

“Cheap. Good publicity, too,” Bliss added, yawning. “Buy two tables and put Rory at the other one with Daddy.”

“Excellent suggestion,” Savoy said. “Sure to improve everyone’s digestion. Rory?”

“He wants the family together, in public, and not arguing or getting drunk.”

Rory carefully didn’t look at his ex, who had almost made headlines taking a swing at the cop who arrested her for drunk driving. Fortunately, the cop had been a sheriff’s deputy who knew which side his bread was buttered on. He’d tossed Bliss in the back of the squad car and drove her home to her daddy.

“If he wants a public love feast, separate us,” Bliss said.

Rory shook his head, making light slide and shine over the gray temples that turned a rather boyish face into a dignified one. “Mr. Forrest was pretty clear that he wanted a united Savoy table for the press to see.”
And more important, to reassure Angelique White that the family was in accord on the subject of the merger.

But Bliss was dead set against anything that had to do with developing the ranch, so talking about Angelique wouldn’t increase the peace.

Rory also didn’t say aloud what everyone at the conference already knew—Ward Forrest might be more than seventy, but he looked and acted like a fit fifty. Although he’d willingly handed over the reins of corporate power to his two favorite children ten years ago so that he could pursue various hobbies and interests, the bulk of the actual wealth was still under Ward’s control. The leash on Bliss and Savoy was long, but it was real.

“If press coverage is the issue, tell Daddy to sit at La Susa’s table,” Bliss said, using the media’s name for Susa Donovan, who signed her paintings with a simple
Susa.
“The Donovan matriarch is the driving power behind the auction as well as being the celebrity that reporters will line up five-deep to interview.”

Rory ignored her.

So did everyone else.

“Fine, one table,” Savoy said, making a note in the margin and turning to the next topic.

“Where is my side of the family sitting?” Pickford asked. “These tables aren’t big enough for more than eight, and I’m sure the Pickford women will want to attend with us.”

“I thought you didn’t like art,” Savoy said.

“I don’t. Make sure there’s room for at least eight Pickfords at a Savoy Enterprises table.”

“Two tables,” Savoy said, making another note. “At opposite ends of the room.” He looked up at Rory. “Unless Dad wants to include collateral relatives in the love feast?”

Rory laughed. “Only if it’s their funeral he’s attending.”

Savoy smiled slightly. Ward had hated the Pickford family at first look forty years ago. Nothing had changed since then.

Nothing would.

“The next item on our agenda,” Savoy said, shifting papers, “is the suit filed against the corporation by Concerned Citizens for Sane Development. We have to decide whether we want to settle out of court and agree to cut the density of our planned Artists Cove community by two thirds, or spend the next decade in court while continuing to pay taxes as if the land is already developed. Or we could put the land in Agricultural Reserve, save tax money, and in all probability lose the ability to ever develop that tract of the ranch in the future.”

“You can develop whatever you want, as long as it isn’t on
my
half of the ranch,” Bliss said. “That half includes Sandy Cove, which is the real name of Artists Cove.”

“You don’t own half of anything,” Rory shot back, “and Sandy Cove doesn’t exist on any map. Artists Cove does.”

“Keep your goddamn bulldozers out of the old family land where our ancestors lived and died,” Bliss snarled.

“Waterfront is the most profitable land to develop on the ranch, and Artists Cove is just a small part of what should be on the table,” Pickford said loudly. “We’re getting eaten alive by taxes and—”

Bliss, Pickford, and Rory started talking over one another.

“Ladies first,” Savoy said, rapping the ashtray sharply on the table.

“That would be you,” Rory said to Pickford.

When the accountant came halfway out of his chair, Savoy sat down, picked up his cigarette, and took a long, soothing pull. He would need any help he could get not to lose his temper. The meetings resembled nothing so much as the family brawl they were. It had always been that way. It always would be. The only thing that changed was the names of the players snarling at each other, wasting time when there wasn’t any to waste.