Retribution (24 page)

"No… no, you're not taking Jagger," Charlie said, drawing back, hauling with her strength on his harness. The golden lowered his head and let out a low, unhappy whine.

She looked past at John, her eyes bright with both fear and appeal.

The thin-shouldered, wiry man set his heels, his stubbornness rippling through his uniform. "Ma'am, this is just like a warrant. You don't have any choice!"

John reached into his back pocket and got his wallet out, flipping it open in a smooth move. "You must be the call I got," he said to the animal control officer. He flashed his kennel credentials and business card at him. "I get your overflow animals. Guardian Dogs."

As the county employee bent his head and attention to the wallet, John stared at Charlie. She winced and seemed to try to take a deep breath. John made an impatient move. "This is the dog, right? Bit somebody? Want him for quarantine? Look, my time is money. I got a contract for the overflow. You called, I came."

"I didn't call," the man said. "I don't have the pickup truck with me today… came over here on the rush. But I don't make these calls."

John sucked on a tooth unhappily. "Somebody called me. You can take him if you want… hope you got a muzzle… he looks like he could bite somebody else… but I have to bill the county anyway, for my trip and a day's board. Even if I don't take the dog."

"I can't authorize that."

"You don't have to authorize it. I got my license right here. Copy of my contract." John slipped out the copy, unfolded it, and waved it in the air. The county used him mainly for emergency evacuations during fire season, when brushfires often left homeless animals ranging behind. He even had held a horse for them once, at the rear of his acreage.

The county employee blinked through his frameless glasses and scrubbed a hand over a head that showed freckled, balding scalp through mousy brown hair. "Who called you?"

John said, "Don't have a name, but they had my contract number." He smoothed out his copy and began to read it off.

"Forget it." He took his own paperwork, holding it to his chest like a shield. "Sign for the dog."

Charlie looked from one to the other. "You're just going to hold him?"

"That's all, ma'am, like I tried to tell you. Until you can get a copy of that rabies certificate from your vet or quarantine is over."

She released one hand from the harness, visibly relaxing. John frowned slightly at her. "Have you got a muzzle, Miss?"

"He won't need a muzzle."

John scratched his head. "I've got one out in the van. You'll need to take his harness off. I have a leash I use."

"He won't fight you." Charlie put her chin out.

The county employee looked as though that was the start of the argument where he came in, shoved a pen and his forms at John, backing up to the door. "Ma'am, you settle that with Mr.— ah— Rubydoo." He ripped apart the paperwork, dropped a copy on the end table, and bolted out the door. Jagger gave a resounding bark as if personally responsible for the rout.

She dropped the harness wearily as John kicked the door shut. She leaned against the couch and watched Jagger as he lunged to the front window, still barking.

"You're a dog catcher?"

"Pardon me, Miss, but we like to be called animal control officers. And, no, I'm not a dog catcher." He smiled. "I am just kennel help." He refolded his paperwork carefully and slid it back into his wallet. "Actually, I get the dogs and cats from burn areas, usually, the healthy ones. I board them till their families are located and can take them again, or until the shelter has room."

"Really?"

"Really. That was a valid contract I showed him. So, officially," he grabbed Jagger and pulled him away from the window. He shook the dog affectionately, adding, "Your ass is mine, dog."

Jagger slurped him.

"I don't think he's impressed," Charlie observed.

"He will be when I put him in the lockup."

"Will he get fed in there?"

"Of course, twice a day, kibble to order—" He stopped as he realized she was watching him.

"At least he won't starve." Charlie faintly emphasized
he.

John stood, baffled. She watched him with a look of faint amusement. He spread his hands. Jagger sat on his foot, tilted his head and looked at him curiously. "What did I do? No reward for saving him?"

"You," she said, advancing on him, "forgot lunch."

She reached him, and slid her arms around his neck. "No lunch, no reward."

He looked into her blue-gray eyes, smiling eyes, despite the faint shadows of tiredness below them, and felt himself stir again, wanting to make love to her again, but not frantically, hurriedly, as they had that morning. He wanted to stretch out on an immense bed, and explore her, and have her touch him…

He managed to say, "I think I can handle that."

"I hope so," Charlie told him. "I am very… very… hungry…" And to prove it, she began nibbling on his lips.

John forgot what he had planned.

* * *

George Laverman laughed, leaned over, and refreshed Wade's iced tea with the carafe left at the table. "You seriously didn't tell her that."

"I did," returned Wade. "The best way to get even with Elyse is to yank her husband's chain. She adores him." He grinned as he picked up his drink. "Besides, she's a good colleague. It wasn't her personally who had the file, it was one of her staff, and I can pretty well be damn sure it won't happen again. At least, not to one of my files."

"And what about Charlie Saunders?"

Wade sat back in the upholstered dining chair, the ambience of the room muffled, quiet, dignified, wide glass windows affording yet another view of the beautiful Laguna cove, while sheltering the diners from ocean winds which could be downright cold during the winter. It was late spring, though, and he would have liked to feel the sea spray on the breeze. "I don't know," he said, finally. "I think Quentin will make sure she comes in. Until I get a look at it myself, I don't have the slightest idea."

A waitress, young, pretty, vibrant, came by with a bread basket filled with freshly baked bread and folded the linen napkin back a corner to expose it, letting the smell escape further. She left.

Wade watched her walk away. She was about Charlie's age, and walked with a bounce of good health, strong limbs. He looked back at his place setting. Charlotte Saunders should have suffered no ill effects from his surgery, but he had not been quite skilled enough, then. Though it probably had been a slight stroke during recovery. He was not sure— could never be sure— that he had not done the damage himself.

On the other hand, she was lucky to be alive. Fortunate that he had been able to excise the tumor, and that it had been benign.

Blessed to have had a good surgical team working on her.

He smiled at Laverman, as he caught the judge looking at him. George finished buttering a slice of the fragrant bread and said, "You never married, did you, Wade?"

"As the saying goes, I'm married to my job." He lifted his glass to hide his expression slightly. "Doctors make poor husbands."

"I would have to disagree with that. Look at you. You damn near work banker's hours. You can't tell me that you get hauled out at two in the morning to answer somebody's emergency call. Your operations are scheduled like clockwork."

Wade laughed. "All right, then." He took a drink and set it down. "I just never found anyone I wanted to marry. And the longer I go, the more set in my ways I get. Nobody could measure up to Abby."

"She would be pleased to hear that." George dabbed his napkin to his mustache, cleaning off the butter and crumbs. "She was a wonderful hostess, a smart intelligent woman… and she had an ego."

He smiled in memory. "She had a lot to be proud of."

"You got one of her paintings, didn't you?"

"Just the one, one of Charlie's."

"I bought the others from her. She said she wanted to give the fund cold, hard cash."

"I haven't seen them in years."

Laverman plucked himself another piece of bread, as the waitress came back and served up cold salad plates. "The Peppermill is just around the corner and up the hill. They're doing a retrospective on Charlie's works, have most of the ones which are kept in California there right now. I'm out of the courtroom until tomorrow morning. Have time to go to the gallery with me?"

"I'd like that. This might be a good time to remind myself just what a remarkable young lady she was."

"Abby always did have a good eye for promising young talent." George winked at him over a forkful of crisp lettuce, streaked with carrot slivers and radiccio, his voice full of innuendo.

Wade chuckled. "Wait till I get you out on the greens," he said. "I will remember every word."

The judge laughed heartily. A few diners turned to look, smiled, then went back to their luncheons. Nothing untoward could surely be happening in this muted dinner house, perched on the cliffs overlooking the ocean, on a day clear of fog and smog. Surely nothing.

Wade smiled and smoothed his napkin over his lap, speared a bay shrimp on his silver tines, and crunched it between his teeth. He enjoyed his salad thoroughly, and they regaled one another with golfing tall tales as the grilled salmon steaks came, and then pretended to fight over the check; but as well off as Wade was, he could not match Laverman's wealth, which had nothing to do with his career as a judge. He and his wife had both been born into money, old money gone West, which was one reason they had known Abby. She knew how to cultivate and network money.

He followed Laverman's Mercedes through the streets, guiding his Jag, thinking that he liked the community, the colony of Laguna, with its narrow inconvenient streets and neighborhoods, stubbornly refusing to knock down and overbuild on its pricey ocean view lots. George's house overlooked the canyon itself, where the grounds and bowl for the Laguna Festival of the Arts, and Wood Chip Celebration, and other outdoor art expos reigned year-round, amidst the tourism and the arts. Laverman did not take him to his hilltop home, however, but up to the grounds of one of the old railroad magnates, where what had been a carriage or gatehouse was now a restructured, modern, and yet whimsical art gallery.

A banner strung across the front carried the July and August dates of the upcoming Laguna Arts Festival and the expositions at the Wood Chip Celebration. Wade had to duck under it slightly to enter the gallery door. George brushed a finger across his mustache, smoothing it. Inside, the building seemed far bigger than out, its ceiling nearly two stories high, its walls filled with art, movable and permanent walls making more exhibition space. One wing seemed open, walls bare, an easel set up, a work in progress, an unframed, newly finished canvas done in acrylics leaning at the foot of the wall, placards in a half-open cardboard box nearby, as if waiting for a new show to be set up. A battered, rolling table with two drawers held what appeared to be someone's collection of new and well-cared-for brushes, a tray of paints, a pad of disposable paper palettes, and other supplies. There was, however, no sight of the artist.

George moved purposely to the northern end of the gallery, waving off a thin, freckled, redheaded woman who lurched to her feet from her desk.

"Relax, Janie. Dr. Clarkson here owns a Saunders, and I wanted him to see the exhibit."

"Ah." She wrung her hands in slight embarrassment, gave an awkward bow, then reseated herself at her desk. "Do you need me, Judge Laverman?"

"No, no. I'll just walk him around. Don't let us interrupt you."

She smiled faintly, setting her freckled complexion into animation, then looked down. Whatever it was she was working on drew her attention back completely, and she did not seem to notice as they walked past.

The phone rang twice at Wade's back and began a third ring before she picked it up to answer, though the three of them were the only ones there.

Laverman spread his hands. "Here you have it. Janie has been working on getting "Retribution" on loan permanently from the Norton Simon in Pasadena, but with the exception of that pair, this is a pretty good retrospective of Charlie's works. Janie asked Charlie's help in getting them hung chronologically. Yet even these very early ones, have a real sense of color and movement. In the later ones, she shows the little training she was allowed to have—"

"Allowed to have?"

"That's right. Quentin and her manager, Federico Valdor, they were both pretty shrewd when it came to marketing Charlie. They sensed that her appeal came from her youth and the fact that she hadn't been molded into someone's idea of what she should be artistically. I disagree. The paintings I own came after she worked with Kirk Miller of The Open Door Gallery and he gave her the ability to do things she'd been struggling with before. Art hasn't changed much in hundreds of years, but when an artist has to figure out every aspect of it herself, it can take a lifetime of experimentation until she finds herself free to do what she wants." Laverman folded his arms over his chest, tucking his chin in, his lanky athletic body momentarily at rest, gazing at a painting.

Wade merely responded, "I know what I like." He moved along the wall slowly, eyeing each and every painting. There was one of a monarch butterfly resting on a wild thistle, a child's view of change and promise, done with an imprecise hand, even then obviously not trying to convey a photographic sense of the scene, but the feeling of a wild thing, free flight, caught and balanced for a moment.

Another painting caught him, a row over, its canvas streaked with darkness, fear, action, and reaction. He found himself staring at it for a very long time till George said, "Remember that one?"

"No," answered Wade faintly. "I don't think I do."

"Abby didn't like it. She said it was like looking into someone's dark soul. My wife doesn't like it either. Once Janie gets insurance set up, we'll probably leave it here on permanent exhibit. Unless the Norton Simon wants to buy it from us, or the L.A. Museum of Modern Art." Laverman shrugged in his sports coat. "Nothing wrong with making a profit now and then."