Nathan
G. Cava watched the Mercedes pull into the drive and vanish behind the grove of
oak trees. But it was the Ford Explorer with darkened glass following the
Mercedes onto the property that he found so disturbing. As the gate closed, he
pulled into a construction site just across the street. Someone wanted a new
mansion, so they tore the old one down. Nothing was left but a ten-foot wall protecting
a bunch of dirt.
Welcome
to the Westside. Swimming pools and movie stars.
Cava made a loop, his Hummer grinding
up the loose soil. When he had a reasonable view of Fontaine’s place, he
slammed on the brakes and watched the cloud of dust rake across the hood. Then
he reached for his binoculars, steadying his view through the trees with his
elbows pinned to the steering wheel.
Fontaine
and his girlfriend from the office were heading for the front door. The two men
riding in the Explorer were walking around both sides of the house, sweeping
the property.
It
looked like the Beverly Hills doctor had hired a pair of bodyguards. All of a
sudden things were getting dramatic. And Nathan G. Cava didn’t like dramatic.
He
wondered what spooked Fontaine, and figured that it must have been that story
they ran on the news last night. Cava had seen it on one of the stations when
it was rebroadcast at 1:00 a.m. He’d just returned to his apartment, popped an
Ambien CR and was lying in bed waiting for the drug to take. That’s when he
learned that there had been a witness. That part one of his three-part
Hollywood deal wasn’t exactly done yet. There was another loose end. Another
screw up, just like all the other screw ups he’d endured while overseas.
Someone
had been hiding in the parking lot Wednesday night and had the balls to take
that picture. The quality of the photograph ate shit and wasn’t worth worrying
about. But someone had been lurking in the shadows. Someone had been watching
him. No matter how dark it may have been that night, odds were that the witness
saw his face and probably knew the make and model of his car. As he played back
the night in his head, he had to admit that he’d been a little nervous, a bit
rusty and not exactly up to par. He hadn’t expected her to be so young or
pretty. And he didn’t expect her to smile. He had seen her do it through the
window when he walked by. He could see the spark in her eyes.
Even
worse, he wasn’t really sold on the reason he had been given to talk to the
pretty girl and take her life. It felt a lot like the reasons he had been given
during his three tours of duty. When he did the math, it never really added up.
Especially the two additional years he had spent in Eastern Europe, where he
had been given the nickname Dr. Neat.
The truth was that he considered himself a physician – not an information
specialist who interviews people and delves into their past with the aid of
special tools. Although he had followed orders, he hated the nickname and the
people who gave it to him. It felt more like a burden than anything else. A
burden placed on him by people he couldn’t trust because he knew that they
didn’t have souls and were using him.
Cava
needed reasons to do the things he did. The more personal, the better. And if
he couldn’t be given a reason, he needed to find one on his own. Something with
more resonance than money. Something more real and less tarnished than For God and Country. Sometimes he found
the reason the moment he looked at a person. But usually it took a couple of
days to smoke out and feel true. It was part of the creative process. The thing
that kept him sane in a world that had stopped spinning eight years ago. The
thing that protected his core deep inside. The core no one could get to. No one
could catch or reach or run a jet liner through.
*
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R O B E R T E L L I S B L O G S P O T
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