The Florentine Deception (6 page)

“What the hell happened?” he asked.

“There was someone in the house.”

“Someone, as in, the owner?”

“No way. The owner would have flipped on all the lights when he saw me and called the police. This guy slipped out a side door in the dark and began hunting me.”

“Jesus. You think he was after the diamond too?”

“Why else would he be there?” I asked.

“How should I know? This whole thing was your brilliant idea.”

I grunted.

“How did you esc—oh, before I forget, where are my keys?”

“Umm,” I stammered.

“Umm what? Where are my keys?”

“They got lost in the bushes when you tossed them up to me.”

“Lost? You lost my frickin' keys? Now how the hell am I going to get them back?”

“We'll get them tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Another midnight visit with a psychopath? No thank you. And what if we're caught trespassing by some celebrity Malibu neighborhood watcher? Lovely. I always wanted to be raped in prison.”

“You're not going to prison. We can pick them up at the open house tomorrow.”

“Open what?”

“Open house. Look at the flyer.” I stabbed a finger at the crumpled page. “They're having an open house tomorrow. It's Sunday. We can go look at the house, and while I'm talking with the real estate agent, you can go bushwhacking in the backyard for your keys.”

It was Steven's turn to grunt.

“Look—all I know is there's something to this whole Florentine Diamond thing, and we're going to find out what it is.” Steven opened his mouth to say something, but I cut him off. “Just trust me.”

Chapter 9

After a hearty Sunday brunch at the Malibu Denny's, Steven and I paid our second visit to Chateau Richard. This time Steven drove, using a spare key. Obsessed with engine specs, fuel injection kits, and ram-air intake valves, Steven was the engineer's engineer. Our drive up the coast included a series of obligatory roller-coaster takeoffs, screeching stops, and a fishtail turn onto Latigo, accompanied by lively speculation about the prowler and Steven's current wish list of potential engine upgrades. This time we parked inside the open gate.

Steven reached for his door handle, then diverted his hand into his pocket. “Almost forgot! This one's for you.” He held out an inch-long flashlight like the one we'd used in last night's reconnaissance.

“How come? Thanks man!”

“No problem. Consider it this and next year's birthday gifts.”

I laughed. “Okay. Back to business,” I said, adding the miniature flashlight to my own key ring.

“According to the flyer, the place has three bedrooms, two stories, and three thousand square feet. All for a bargain two-point-seven million.”

“I can believe it. Hillary'd love a place like this. But then her parents would want to move in with us. So I guess I'll have to pass.”

I rang the doorbell. About a minute later, a twentyish woman opened the door. She was on her cell.

“Hold on a sec.”

She was chomping on gum.

I whispered to Steven, “The real estate agent must have her daughter babysitting the open house.” Steven nodded. A few minutes later, Ms. Bubblegum returned, still on the phone.

“Hi guys, feel free to take a look around. Do me a favor and sign in.” She tapped annoyingly on an empty guest book with a three-quarter-inch-long green fingernail.

Steven made a beeline for the backyard. I started on a self-guided tour. Ms. Juicy Fruit continued her conversation.

I looked around. The fifties-era house had been completely overhauled by someone with lots of money and nineteenth-century inclinations; the interior looked more like a British manor than a chic Malibu crib. I found the entryway particularly impressive—an inlaid marble mosaic covered its floor while the walls were adorned with rich cherry wood paneling and capped in crown molding. The three bedrooms were equally impressive, each one with a unique shape—one hexagonal, another with a curved ceiling, another with its own loft—and each had its own fireplace and exposed wood-beam ceilings. On a lark, I sauntered into the glorious master bathroom, looked over my shoulder—twice—and popped the top off the toilet tank expecting to find the Florentine wrapped in plastic next to the Ty-D-Bol chlorine tablet. No such luck.

Completing my circuit, I arrived in the kitchen. An otherwise peaceful view of the backyard was marred by a large spider-crack in the picture window above the sink, no doubt the fruit of my excellent midnight shot put. I shifted my gaze away guiltily. “What's the asking price?” I asked the masticator.

She shot me a condescending look that said, “You're way too young and too poor to afford this place,” then picked up a flyer and read: “Two-point-seven million.”

“Thanks. Anyone living here now?”

“No.” She shot a quizzical look at me. “Why do you ask?”

“I was just wondering if I could move in immediately,” I lied.

“Oh, no problem. It's totally empty and move-in ready. The family finished clearing the place out weeks ago.” So much for the family member-acting-as-caretaker theory. That someone from last night was hunting for the diamond.

“Thanks. I'm going to look around some more.”

She didn't seem to mind, and by the time I'd turned my head, was dialing another number. Walking down the hall, I noticed an obscure door on the left of the main entry hall just outside the kitchen. I wouldn't call it a secret door, but it was obviously designed to be inconspicuous, matching the rest of the cherry paneling and sans a doorknob. In lieu of the knob, it offered a flat brass ring-pull, set flush into the wood and matching in color. I dug my teeth-trimmed fingernail beneath it and after three attempts, succeeded in prying the ring from its hollow in the wall. The door opened with a bit of resistance and then a click. Behind it, a surprisingly rickety-looking stairway descended into what must have been a wine cellar. Excited by the prospect of another diamond nook, I flicked on the light switch just behind the door and started down the staircase.

“Excuse me.”

I descended a few more steps, hoping the interjection wasn't for me.

“Excuse me. Please don't go down there,” the babysitter reiterated.

I turned around. “I'm sorry?”

“The staircase isn't safe. A few weeks ago, a fat guy put his foot right through a step during an open house.”

“I'd really like to see the cellar if I'm going to consider buying the place.”

“It's scheduled to be fixed in about three weeks. If you'd like to see it before then, there's a 3-D tour on the Internet.”

“Okay. Thanks. I'll just look around the backyard then.”

I wound my way to the three-level great room in the back and stepped out the side door—the one with the deadbolt—and into the backyard. The garden was even more beautiful bathed in sunlight, and reminded me of a domesticated tropical jungle.

Steven crunched up the pebble-covered path, his wiry brown hair disheveled and strewn with leaves. He had a sarcastic “nice job” look on his face.

“You didn't find them?”

“I did, but it required some serious hedge diving.”

“It shows.” I paused. “Well, I didn't find any diamonds. But she wouldn't let me look in the cellar.” I filled him in on the details.

“So we're done, right?”

“No way. Aren't you curious?” I prodded.

Steven gazed at his reflection in my glasses and brushed a few dry leaves from his hair. “Sure, but what're we going to do? Buy the house for a few mil and x-ray the walls?”

“Why not?” I grinned back. Steven stared, dumbfounded.

“In college you were just foolish, now you're rich and foolish—rich plus foolish equals dangerous. Need I remind you again of Boelter?”

“This isn't even in the same league, and admit it, you were just as into it as I was.”

Steven pretended to ignore me.

“You're going to buy this house for a crazy treasure hunt?” he reiterated. “What if you're wrong? Hey, what's a few million dollars anyway, right?”

“You know I've been looking for a second place, and this one is amazing. Plus, I'm not necessarily going to buy it. I'm just going to make an offer.”

Steven grimaced. “And then what?”

“Listen,” I pulled closer, “the diamond's got to still be up for grabs, or that prowler wouldn't have been skulking around. I can put down an offer. If they accept, I'll have an inspector come in and check the place out.”

“And?”

“And that's where you come in,” I winked, “Inspector.”

“Are you crazy? You've definitely lost it.”

I ignored him. “You'll have access to the whole house: the basement, the attic, everything. If you don't find anything interesting, we cancel the sale. Worst case, I lose a deposit, or if we find something, I'll end up with a new house.” I'd almost convinced myself.

“Isn't it illegal to hire a fake inspector?”

“I don't think so. It might not be smart, but I don't think it's illegal.”

“But the girl will recognize me.” He was trying hard.

“She's just the house-sitter. Once I make an offer, we'll deal with the agent. Nothing to worry about.”

“How …” Before he could whip up any additional objections, I spun around and headed back into the house. It took a few minutes before I found Blondie blathering on the phone in the master bathroom.

“One sec.” She cupped her hand over the phone and gave us a “yes?” look.

“I'm interested in making an offer. But if you're busy …” I raised my eyebrows inquiringly.

That did it. Fifteen minutes later, she had the listing agent on the phone and we were in business. We had an appointment set for nine a.m. Tuesday, just enough time to do a little research on recent home-sale prices.

Chapter 10

Monday passed without incident and I had ample opportunity to plumb the Malibu market using the online Los Angeles-based real estate listing service. Three comparable homes had sold in the last six months on Latigo and Castro Peak, an adjacent road, between $2.4 and $2.6 million. Richard's was priced high and the market was still soft, so I figured I had some serious leeway.

I arrived a few minutes before nine and parked right outside Richard's main gate. Just as I engaged my parking brake, my smartphone vibrated. I'd received a text. From Linda.

LindaR: Been climbing recently, cowboy?

A transplant from Montana, Linda had her own hybrid Midwest-LA dialect.

Alex: Heading to Echo Cliffs in an hour. Can u make it?

LindaR: No can do. Working. Potter txted me about the Ojai cave next month. I'm totally in.

Alex: Oh cool! Gonna play hooky, huh?

LindaR: Nah. $$ dried up. No more OT for ER nurses.

Alex: All right, gotta go. Real estate agent's here.

A middle-aged woman in a gleaming silver Jaguar had pulled up next to my car. Regina Flowers, no doubt. From the looks of her wheels, business had obviously been good.

LindaR: What?!? U buying a house?

Alex: :) It's a long story. g2g.

LindaR: Catch ya later cowboy.

“Hello,” said Regina Flowers, an annoyed look on her face. “Can I help you?”

“I think so. You're the broker, right? I'm Alex Fife.”

Regina did a double take.

“Oh …” she stammered. “Alex … It's nice to finally meet you!” An irritating toothy grin beamed from a mouth wider than Julia Roberts's.

“Nice to meet you,” I said, shaking her hand.

“Sorry about that—to be honest, I didn't expect you to be quite so young.”

“Yeah, it's a little unusual, I guess. But don't worry, I'm serious about buying.”

We stepped inside and after a half-hour of small talk and form-filling on a folding table, I submitted my offer of $2.45 million. The Julia Roberts smile withered. Apparently my offer didn't meet her Jaguar-class expectations.

“I'll give you a ring as soon as the seller's had a chance to review your offer.”

“Thanks.” And that was that.

After hunting fruitlessly for a Subway, I picked up a hideously expensive free-range chicken sub (on sprouted wheat) from a chichi sandwich joint on PCH, then worked my way up the curvy mountain roads to Echo Cliffs. For me, climbing was exercise, social mixer, and stress reducer all rolled into one. Now in my seventh year of the sport, I'd become so familiar with the local rock—its curves, pockets and projections—that I could zone out and climb in a practically trance-like state. Some of my friends had gym memberships and others had yoga—I had the rock. And Potter and Linda were my partners in crime.

At seven, after a full day tackling an overhanging climbing route called “Crash and Burn” with Potter's buddy Jamie and a few of his out-of-town friends, I headed over to Steven and Hillary's place, a bottle of muscat dessert wine and a hamburger squeezy-toy rolling around on my passenger seat.

Hillary greeted me with a warm hug, then stepped aside and motioned me in. Instantly, Pippin, their beagle pup, scampered over and sat in front of me. The dog had a sixth sense about squeezy-toys. Or maybe it was the fact that I brought one every time I visited. Pippin seized the orange plastic burger from my outstretched hand and took off.

“Are you losing weight?” I asked, closing the door. Attired in a yellow tank top covered in sunflowers and a matching yellow sundress, Hillary looked unusually svelte.

“You can tell?” She beamed. “I'm eating vegan every other day.”

“The pork-and-vegan diet.” I nodded approvingly. “I like it.”

I glanced around.

“Where's what's-his-name?”

“Still in the shower.”

I handed her the bottle and stepped in close. “Whaddya say you and I run off and leave Steven with his rockets?” I shot my eyes left and right in a conspiratorial display.