The Forgotten by David Baldacci
“You really need to start doing that. You’re not getting any younger.”
For a second Puller thought she was going to say, “We're not getting any younger.”
“Sound advice.”
“Only if you take it. I’ll call you as soon as I know anything on the plate. In the meantime try not to get killed down there. I’m just starting to like you.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“So you said your aunt left you the house?” “What the lawyer told me.”
“A house in Paradise?”
“Guess so.”
“I might have to come down and check it out.”
“Why’s that?” he said.
“Hell, isn’t it obvious? I’ve never been to Paradise before. Like to see if it lives up to its billing.”
“Well, it hasn’t so far.”
Puller clicked off and pondered what to do next. He looked at his watch. Now that he didn’t have to go down to the police station and press charges he had a little free time before his dinner with Landry.
He had some items on his to-do list.
Check out the lawyer Griffin Mason.
Check on Diego and his cousins.
Duplicate the ten-mile there-and-back trip his aunt might have taken.
He made up his mind quickly: check on Diego and his cousins.
Just in case.
CHAPTER 41
“He is gone.”
Puller stood in the doorway of Diego’s small apartment and looked down at Isabel. Little Mateo was behind her, his thumb stuck in his mouth.
“Is that unusual?” asked Puller. “Him not being here? It seemed to me that he spent a lot of time on the streets.”
“He comes back for lunch. But he did not. He always comes by six, but he did not,” said Isabel. “Do you have a phone?”
She shook her head.
“When did he leave?”
“This morning. I worked late at the restaurant with mi abuela. Diego was here looking after Mateo. He left before I got up. Mi abuela did not hear him leave either. I am very worried.”
“Did he say last night what he might be doing today?”
She shook her head again. “He usually goes down to the beach. He sells things to the tourists. Sometimes he works for the hotels.”
“He’s too young for that, isn’t he?”
She looked at him like he was crazy.
Puller said, “Okay, I’ll keep an eye out for him.”
Puller looked at the bruises both had received from the gang of three. “Have any of those punks come around here, Isabel?”
“I have seen none of them. I hear that you beat them up again. And their friends.”
“Who did you hear that from?”
“I just hear it.”
Puller nodded. “I’m going to get you a disposable phone and leave you my contact info. That way you can reach me and I can get in touch with you, okay?”
She nodded.
It took Puller about half an hour, but he dropped the phone off and then climbed into his Tahoe and drove off.
As much as he didn’t like it, Diego would have to wait. He hoped the boy was okay. But something was telling him that wasn’t the case.
Twenty minutes later he pulled onto the street where Griffin Mason had his law office. The same Infiniti was in the driveway.
Yet he didn’t pull into Mason’s driveway. He spotted another little house down the street with a sign out front and pulled in there. He got out and knocked on the door. An attractive blondehaired woman in her forties answered the door. She was short and curvy and wearing a short black skirt, black hose, and a matching jacket. Her white blouse was open enough at the top to show a slice of cleavage from her ample bosom. Since it was still about ninety degrees outside, Puller assumed that in all that black plus stockings she was probably sweating just by being at the door.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“My name is John Puller. I was out here yesterday meeting with Griffin Mason over an estate issue. He’s not my lawyer. He represented my aunt, who recently passed away. He said to check references before I decided to keep him on with the estate work.”
She blanched. “Grif gave me as a reference?” “That’s right, Ms. Dowdy. You seem surprised.”
Puller had gotten her name from the sign outside that had her picture and also helpfully included the fact that she was fluent in Spanish.
“That’s because I am. And I don’t really have time to talk.”
She started to close the door, but Puller held out his Army creds. “I came down here yesterday from D.C. My aunt died unexpectedly. I don’t know a soul in town. I’m just trying to come up to speed fast and doing my proper due diligence. The military way. Any help you can give me would be appreciated.”
“My son’s in the Navy.”
“Navy’s given me a ride many a time.” He stared at her expectantly.
She glanced down the street toward Mason’s office. “I’ve got a dinner meeting to go to in about twenty minutes, but I can answer questions for you until then. Come on in.”
A minute later they were seated in her office, which was far neater than Mason’s.
“So, as I explained Ms. Dowdy...”
“Just make it Sheila,” she said. She pulled out a cigarette. “Don’t worry, it’s an electronic one. Damn thing really works. Smoked for twenty years and then went cold turkey with this a year ago. Hope my lungs can regenerate.”
Puller watched as water vapor rose from the device, and then refocused on her.
“As I said, Sheila, I’m just checking references on Mason. I assume you know him?”
“Oh, I know Grif all right.”
“So would you recommend him?”
“I’m a lawyer. I say anything negative then somebody can sue me. And Grif certainly would.”
“Well, that in itself is sort of a negative answer,” pointed out Puller.
“But nothing actionable,” she replied promptly.
“So you wouldn’t recommend him?”
She sat back, studied him. “Who was your aunt?”
“Betsy Simon.”
“Didn’t know her. But if she has Grif handling her estate, it’s probably most cost-efficient to let him keep going. But a piece of advice, watch the financial accounts like a hawk.”
“Is that sometimes a problem with Mason?”
“I wouldn’t use the word ‘sometimes.’ ”
“Then why would people use him?”
“He must hide his tracks well.”
“But you must know differently. How?”
“Let me put it this way. I’ve been practicing law down here pretty much as long as he has. Our client list is very similar. We handle the same sorts of cases. Trusts and estates lawyers are not like the Wall Street M and A guys. We don’t get rich doing this. I sure as hell haven’t, and I work my ass off, excuse the language.”
“But Mason has gotten rich?”
“Don’t let the crummy office in the old house fool you. I live in East Paradise, two blocks off the water because that’s all I can afford. I drive an eight-year-old Toyota Camry. Mason has a one- acre waterfront spread that is definitely well into the seven-figure range. In addition to that Infiniti he drives a Porsche and an Aston Martin. And he takes trips all over the world—Africa, Asia, the Middle East, South America. Doesn’t take a genius. The clients are not footing all that. At least not knowingly.”
“So he’s stealing client funds? Again, how come no one has wised up to it? You can’t be the only one who’s become suspicious because of the house and cars.”
“You have to prove it. You have to want to prove it, and apparently no one has. His clients are old and then they’re dead. The heirs usually are out of town. I see it because I live here and I’m in the same profession.”
“Anything else?”
She tapped her cigarette on the desk. “You didn’t hear it from me, but besides the money there’s also something else going o
“What’s that?”
“He seems to like children. He seems to like children way too much, if you know what I mean.”
“Why do you think that?”
“I was with him at a legal function one time. After it was over he got drunk as a skunk in the hotel bar. I was just about to leave when he pulled me back to the table. I thought he wanted to rent a room and get a quickie on with me, as if I’d even consider something like that with him.” “So he’s tried to come on to you before?”
“Let’s put it this way. He always tries to look down my shirt and feel up my ass any chance he gets. But then he started showing me all these pictures in his wallet.” She paused and pursed her lips in disgust. “They were all of young boys and girls.”
“Did he explain why he had them?”
“He said they were his kids.” She laughed. “He must’ve been drunk out of his mind. Probably doesn’t even remember showing them to me.”
“Are you sure they weren’t his kids?”
She smiled and took a puff on her cigarette.
“Well, considering the fact that he’s a fairhaired Irishman and the kids in the photos were black and Asian, no, I’m pretty sure they weren’t related.”
CHAPTER 42
Another hot day on the job had left his fellow workers soaked in sweat and craving cold beers found among air-conditioned bars.
Mecho left them to their bottles and returned to his room. He did not interact with them at work and did not care to be with them while away from work. They seemed fine with that. It would not have mattered to him if they had not been fine with that.
He was not sure what the altercation had been about next door the night before, and he really didn’t care.
He had, however, seen the other man fight.
He was good. Excellent, in fact.
But he had allowed himself to be outflanked. He would have died if Mecho had not helped him.
And maybe I should have let him die.
This was not a flippant thought on Mecho’s part. The other man did not belong here. And people who did not belong somewhere usually had a good reason for being where they didn’t belong.
The man had had a gun.
A Sig P228. But it had been slightly altered. He could tell that even from a distance and in poor light.
The other man’s fitness, close-shaven hair, close-quarter combat skills, and the weapon were telling.
He was military. American military, judging by how he had spoken to Mecho last night.
There were many military bases around here. Which prompted the question of why the military man was staying in a place like the Sierra. And what had he done to anger the street punks.
Maybe nothing.
Mecho had done nothing to piss off the ones who had come after him that night on the streets. They were like hyenas looking for prey in all the right places, and occasionally running into someone who fought back. Then the hyenas would run away. They always did.
As he sat on his bed he forgot about Puller and reflected on the additional information gathered on the Lampert estate today.
After his brief conversation with Chrissy Murdoch he had continued to work the grounds. Over near a stand of trees he had seen one of the maids talking with the pool man. He had drifted over and listened. When the maid was done with her conversation, Mecho had edged still closer to her.
When she saw him she looked startled. But he spoke to her in Spanish and his smile was disarming. As he worked the lawn he spoke with her. Her reticence diminished. Her answers grew longer.
Her name was Beatriz. She was very beautiful. Her skin was light brown and smooth. Her hair was dark and luxurious and smelled of coconuts. It was clear that she took good care of her hair. She had not worked much outdoors, he could tell, from the condition of her skin and the smoothness of her hands. She was from El Salvador, she told him. She had been working here for two years. She looked healthy and well fed. Her uniform was spotless. She had not arrived on one of the boats, at least he didn’t think so. But he couldn’t be sure.
He asked her in Spanish about her coming here.
Then he had his answer.
She looked away and hurried off.
He wondered if she knew what her name represented in Spanish.
Voyager.
She had not come very far, geographically. But she had traveled the equivalent of a trip to the moon, he knew.
But now she lived in the big house and wore the spotless uniform and had enough to eat. Back in her native country he doubted this had been the case.
So she should be happy.
Only he knew she wasn’t.
One could not be happy when one was a slave, no matter how well you were treated.
You were still a slave.
He had knelt down and started collecting twigs and scraps of leaves. The Lamperts, he had been told, demanded a perfect lawn, with every blemish needing to be removed. They paid well for this. They probably spent more on landscaping services in a week than most people would earn in a year.
And perhaps Lampert wanted no blemishes on his fancy lawn to compensate for the ugly wounds he inflicted on others. Or perhaps he was not that complicated a man and gave no thought to this issue.
Mecho rose and put the debris in a trash bag he had carried with him.
He knew that security had been watching him more closely, but apparently talking to a mere maid for a bit did not amount to an actionable offense, as it had with one of the ladies of the manor.
He felt a presence nearby and turned to see Chrissy Murdoch come out of the main house with the man who had been with her in the Maserati.
The man had on a seersucker suit, white shirt, and a red bow tie with loafers and no socks. He looked like an ad in one of those magazines where everyone looked perfect and led perfect lives.
Is your life perfect, sir? Would you like a little imperfection in it? Would you like me to take your smug, perfect face and rip it in half?
Chrissy had on a long, flowing white cotton dress with a scalloped front. The harsh light made it pretty much transparent, allowing Mecho a long titillating look at her legs. A wide- brimmed hat protected her from the blazing sun. Her slender, tanned feet were encased in sandals that showed off her pink toenails.
Chrissy spotted him and actually waved. Mecho looked around to see if there was anyone else she could be possibly waving at, but there was no one. The man did not take note of this. He was apparently lost in his own little world to such a degree that he was unaware his woman was being screwed by Peter J. Lampert.
Mecho began to grow suspicious now. It was not natural that someone like her would pay attention to someone like him. There had to be another reason. He did not wave back but instead returned to his work.
They drove off in the Maserati and Mecho wondered if Chrissy had showered to remove the scent of sex, of Peter J. Lampert, from her body. Maybe she didn’t care. Maybe her man didn’t care.