Tall Cool One (23 page)
“Thank you. Now go to work. I want my daughter found, and I want it to happen immediately. Am I clear?”
Jackson hung up, unsure what to do next. It was so much easier when someone else wrote the lines. Then he always did the right thing. He won the fight, caught the bad guys, and got the girl. But there was no script for this. An unfamiliar insecurity washed over him. It reminded him of
The Wizard of Oz;
he felt like the small man behind the screen instead of the great wizard who awed everyone. That small man was no hero. At the moment, Jackson didn’t feel like one either.
“Sweetie?” Poppy stepped back into the room. “How do I look for
Leno?
”
Jackson glanced at his young wife, who’d made a quick change into a different outfit: a sleek black off-the-shoulder top that fell to her hips and covered the stretch waistline of a pair of black palazzo pants. The hair and makeup people had spent two hours buffing, painting, and spraying her to perfection. But Jackson didn’t give a damn. He got up from the bed.
“No
Leno,
Poppy.”
Poppy’s jaw fell open. “We can’t just blow off Jay Leno at the last min—”
“Yeah, we can,” Jackson interrupted. He knew exactly what he had to do. He gathered up his wallet and rummaged in the bedside drawer for his passport. “In fact, we just did. Kiki, call Jay and apologize. Say I’ll come on another time. Anytime he wants. Send a hefty donation to that charity his wife started. Make sure he knows about it.”
“But—”
“But nothing. And call my pilot. I’m going to Mexico.”
I
t wasn’t any harder to get into the main house than it had been to get into the garage—when they tried the front door, it was unlocked. But the inside was pitch-black, and Anna had to use the flashlight they’d found in the garage to search for a light switch. She found one and flipped it on. Nothing happened.
“Great.” Sam groaned, shivering in her wet clothes.
“Power’s got to be out,” Anna mused. “A place like this, I bet they have an emergency generator.”
“What about the lights in the garage?”
“Battery-powered, set off by motion detector?” Anna guessed. “Come on. If there’s a generator, we need go out and find it.”
“What the hell.” Sam sighed. “We can’t get any wetter.”
Guided by the flashlight and the occasional bolt of lightning—the storm had moved off to the north, leaving only steady rain behind—Anna and Sam searched the spacious grounds of the estate. Not far from the house, they found a small white shed. Inside was a gas-powered generator. Anna found the main switch, flipped it, and a gas-powered engine roared to life. A moment later, lights went on inside the main house and a few of the outbuildings.
“Your mind is an impressive thing,” Sam marveled.
“I bet the lightning knocked out their security system, too,” Anna guessed. “That’s why the doors were open and there was no alarm.”
“Thank you, Madame Genius.”
They ran back to the house and pushed through the front door. What they saw inside—the kind of splendor that confronted them—made even Sam and Anna stop and take notice.
The interior walls were adobe, hung with framed artwork: Anna recognized originals by Diego Rivera, Frida Kahlo, Milton Glaser, and Romare Bearden. All worth a mint. Wall lizards in silver and gold crawled up the corners of the massive entryway. Rough-hewn pine furniture—Anna could tell that it was in fact all handmade and doubtless cost a fortune—sat upon Navajo-patterned rugs. Celestial chimes of moons, suns, and stars hung in the arched doorway that led to the rest of the house. But there’d be time to admire that stuff later. What Anna was most interested in now was finding a phone.
She spied one on the pine chest, went to it, and lifted the receiver to her ear, mentally rehearsing her Spanish for the operator.
The mental rehearsal was pointless. There was no dial tone. “Dead,” she reported.
“Of course,” Sam told her. “That would have made it much too easy.”
“No kidding. Are you as freezing as I am?”
Sam nodded. “Let’s find clothes.”
Anna hesitated. “But what if someone is here? It’s called breaking and entering.”
“Yeah, and if we take their clothes, it’s called stealing,” Sam said, rubbing her arms. “But we’re rich. We can buy our way out of trouble if need be.” She led the way through the room with the wonderful artwork and down a long hallway. Anna pushed open a door as they passed it and ducked inside.
It was a bathroom the size of a New York studio apartment; inlaid Mexican tiles surrounded a sunken tub big enough for four people. The water spigots were shaped like lizards. Anna spun one of the spigots, and water flowed out of the lizard’s mouth. Then, as Sam joined her, she opened one of the closets and discovered a stack of white terry-cloth robes.
“Let’s change,” she told Sam. They stripped off their wet clothes and hung them on pegs, then wrapped themselves in the robes and towel-dried their hair. For the first time since getting caught in the storm, they were something approaching comfortable.
“Know what’s weird?” Sam asked. “I haven’t seen a photograph of anyone. It’s like no one lives here.”
“Or whoever lives here doesn’t want their pictures around,” Anna added.
The mystery of the place continued as they found a second great room that was furnished in high-end desert chic: pine tables surrounded by taupe carpets and aqua couches piled with Navajo-print pillows. There was a large-screen TV and state-of-the-art sound system, plus hundreds of CDs stacked in a glass-doored CD tower. But still no photographs.
“I’m guessing drug lord,” Sam said, opening doors to various closets and cubbyholes. She found a photo album, but it contained nothing but pictures of expensive cars. No people. Then Anna spotted another telephone on the second level of an étagère. On the off chance that it was a second phone line, she picked it up. Nothing.
“So much for a night rescue,” Sam said. She hoisted her robe and tied it more tightly. “This is kind of creepy, don’t you think?”
“Very.”
“Like a B-grade horror flick,” Sam went on, “and the reason no one knows our names is because Freddy or Jason or whoever offs us during the first ten minutes of the film.”
Anna shuddered. “Okay, let’s not make ourselves paranoid.”
“Sometimes when you’re paranoid, it’s because someone is really after you.”
“And sometimes when you’re paranoid, it’s because you’re coming down from hallucinogens. No one is after us. No one even knows we’re here.”
“Right,” Sam hissed. “Except Jason.”
“Cut it out,” Anna commanded. “We’re not flipping out. We’re looking for a bedroom, and actual clothes, remember?”
The search took them all through the one-story structure. First they discovered a game room that had a pool table, an air hockey table, table tennis, and a bank of pinball machines from the 1950s as well as Japanese pachinko and every game system known to mankind. Off of it was a home screening room that rivaled the one in the Sharpe mansion, complete with THX surround-sound capability. Near the projection area were racks of DVDs in English, Spanish, French, and German, including six starring Jackson Sharpe. Just down the hall from the screening room was an art gallery that featured only twentieth-century paintings; Anna recognized priceless works by Picasso, Mondrian, and Clyfford Still.
Anna, no stranger to luxury, was stunned.
Whose place is this?
Finally they reached an oversized bedroom. It was dominated by a king-sized round bed covered in Blackglama mink. The bed was reflected in a ceiling mirror.
“Forget drug lord,” Sam opined. “This place has to belong to a rap artist. Or a porn star who likes to watch himself in action.”
Anna gazed at her overhead reflection. “Makes it kind of hard to get lost in the moment, don’t you think?”
Sam chuckled. “Since when did the snooty New York rich girl get so bawdy?”
“I am trying to goeth with the floweth and not creep myself out in this place,” Anna told her. She opened various closets—men’s clothes only and yet another media system. “I’m still surprised there isn’t a watchman.”
“Definitely. With an M-16. And snapping rottweilers, frothing at the mouth.” Sam rushed at Anna, panting like a rabid dog.
“Stop it!” Anna said. “That’s not funny.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Sorry.” Anna shuddered again because she really was concerned about a watchman who might shoot first and ask questions later. Anyone who had a spread like this had to have some kind of security. “I’m trying to be a model of calm. But it isn’t working.”
“Take a deep breath. We’re fine. If the telephones aren’t working, no alarm system can work, either.”
This was true. And it did get Anna to relax a little as Sam went to a chest of drawers and opened the top one.
“Oh yeah. Someone has taste. Someone female.” She extracted a gray triple-ply Anouk Ferrier cashmere sweater and tossed it at Anna. “These puppies go for two grand a pop. Put it on.”
Anna held up the sweater. “I don’t feel great about helping myself to the owner’s wardrobe.”
“Anna. Think about it. Mrs. Rap Artist Porn Star Cocaine King with a secret estate in the middle of Nowhere, Mexico, is not going to leap from under the bed and ax us to death because we wore her clothes overnight.” She went to the last closet that Anna hadn’t checked, opened the double doors, and started pushing hangers around. “Sweet. Armani. Hugo Boss. Versace. Dolce and Gabbana. Roberto Cavalli. Can’t a girl just find a pair of jeans and—aha!” She stopped at a black Juicy Couture warm-up suit and took out the hanger. “This’ll do. So last season, but you can’t have everything. Put the sweater on, Anna.”
Anna hesitated. “Are you sure? We’re in enough trouble already.”
“Fine. Stay in a robe. I don’t know about you, but I’m still cold.”
Sam doffed her robe and stepped into the warm-up suit. Anna shivered and considered. The cashmere she was clutching looked really warm, and she was really freezing. If the mystery owner showed up, they’d just have to find a way to explain themselves. Before she shot them.
No. Stop, brain,
she commanded herself, and pulled on the sweater, luxuriating in the rich, soft fabric. Sam found some jeans for her in a drawer. They were too big, but a Chanel scarf snaked through the loops was a decent improvised belt. Then Anna cocked her head at a set of double doors. “I wonder what’s through there.”
It was an indoor pool surrounded by lush tropical foliage and a smaller hot tub. The ceiling was glass—Anna gazed up at the dark sky and the falling raindrops. “Amazing. This is an amazing house.”
“Hey!” Sam exclaimed. “There’s a bar and a fridge over there. Let’s see what they’ve got.” She padded over to the thatch-roofed bar and opened the refrigerator. “Oh yeah. We’ve just hit the jackpot.” She held up a bottle of chilled champagne. “Taittingers.”
Anna groaned. “How can you think about doing any more drinking?”
“Life is short, Anna. But we can hold this in reserve. Meanwhile, check out all this food!”
Anna realized how hungry she was. She went to the fridge. It was well stocked with delicacies from all over the world. A tin of smoked salmon from Norway. Almas beluga caviar from Vishny Volochek, Russia. Confiture de groseilles with red currants from Bar-le-Duc, France. A jar of capers with Spanish onion peeled and fried in hundred-year-old extra-virgin olive oil from Barcelona. Foie gras in a tin. Even a box of Goo Goo Cluster candies from Tennessee. “You know what this means,” she told Sam.
“That we’re about to feast?” Sam asked as she plucked up a jar of caviar.
“Someone has been here recently,” Anna corrected. “Why else would the fridge be stocked?”
“I don’t know, Nancy Drew, and I don’t care. And it’s all packaged, nothing fresh. It could have been here for a year.” She waved the caviar jar under Anna’s nose, then cracked it open. “Ever taste this stuff? It’s better than sex, I swear.”
Anna’s stomach rumbled. So she dipped her index finger into the caviar and then licked it clean. The little eggs melted into her tongue. “Mmmm.”
“My sentiments exactly.” Sam opened the champagne.
“I’m not drinking,” Anna declared.
“Just one toast,” Sam said. “To one of the best weeks of my life.” She passed the bottle to Anna, who shook her head. “Hey, we haven’t seen anything else liquid except what comes from the tap, and I know you aren’t drinking water that isn’t bottled.”
“Good point.” Anna took a swig and then passed the bottle back to Sam. They finished the caviar and several pieces of salmon. Then Sam spotted a bank of buttons on the opposite side of the room. “I wonder what those are.”
“Sam, don’t touch . . .”
But Sam was already bounding over to the control panel. She pushed a button at random. The lighting in the room shifted from bright and yellow to red and moody. “Cool.” She pushed another button. A booming female voice wailed through the hidden sound system.
“That’s ‘Redneck Woman’!” Sam said, laughing. She started to dance around to the catchy song. “Who would have thought our mystery owner would be a country fan?”
“Who would have thought
you’d
be a country fan?”
“I’m not. But they play this at my aerobics class,” Sam explained. “I get it stuck in my head, it’s so hokey. ‘Let me get a big hell yeah from the redneck girls like me. Hell, yeah!’” she sang out.
“We aren’t redneck girls,” Anna pointed out.
“Oh, loosen up, Anna.” Sam kept on dancing. She pulled Anna to her feet. Sam’s joy was infectious; so was the music. Anna gave herself up to it. The girls danced together, losing themselves in the rowdy female anthem. “Hell, yeah!”
When the song ended, it segued into a country ballad neither of them recognized. They took the moment to plop down by the side of the hot tub and dangled their feet into the warm water.
“This is so cool,” Sam pronounced. “I would have said, ‘That’s hot,’ but did you know that Paris Hilton actually trademarked the phrase?”
“Not really,” Anna said.
“Really. Is that sad or funny or both?” Sam splashed Anna with her toes. “The only thing lacking at the moment is male scenery.”