From Cape Town with Love (12 page)

The ten-car carport was empty except for three cars at the far end, all of them draped in tarps, so I had my choice of parking. The sprawling Spanish villa was almost hidden behind huge royal palms and ficus trees, but from what I could see I assessed the value at about $30 mil, even in a recession. Much more, with all of the land. The house looked like about fifteen thousand square feet, give or take.

Maitlin's head of security met me outside. He looked like Hulk Hogan's svelte younger brother, about thirty-five, with bright blond hair he kept cut as if he were still in the Marines. His uniform was black slacks and a black T-shirt, and he had both a Secret Service–style earpiece and a handi-talkie strapped to his belt. He was also discreetly strapped; I saw the tiny bulk from the gun strapped to his ankle, probably a .38.

His handshake was a crocodile's jaws. “Hardwick? I'm Roman. Sophie says you did a hell of a job out in Cape Town. Thanks for stepping up. I was shitting pea soup for a week.”

Too Much Information. I didn't ask if Roman was his first or last name, but his buried accent might be Swedish or Norwegian. Despite a friendly grin and easy praise, his poorly hidden scowl told me that it wasn't his idea to call me. Maybe he wasn't the type to share.

“Just trying to live up to expectations,” I said. “Cliff Sanders says you're the man. Honor to meet you.”

“You know Cliff?” A genuine smile this time. A little less bass in his voice. Knowing the right badass is instant cred in these circles. Roman gave my shoulder a pat and led me toward a golf cart parked beyond the car shelter. “The party will be around back. Me and my team will pretty much have things handled, but I'll show you the lay of the land. Sophie mostly wants you to mingle and blend in. You won't be working unless there's trouble.”

I almost smiled. Of course. She'd mostly invited me as a networking gift. But Maitlin didn't know me well. If I'm on a job, I'm on a job. I wouldn't be there to socialize.

The golf cart took us along an unpaved, shaded path along the side of the house, and it was like vanishing into a jungle. Then we rounded the corner and met open sky in the expanse of the backyard, which could have doubled as a golf course. Roman gave me the tour of the grounds: tennis court, atrium, pool house, guesthouse. Closer to the main house, the narrow swimming pool looked like it was the length of a football field, ringed by pure coral rock.

“How many guests?” I said.

“About two hundred. She's keeping it intimate.” Not a drop of irony. “Swimming's out—she's paranoid after the Tommy Lee thing. Damn sad,
a kid drowns like that. She's doing a carnival theme for the kids instead. Water slides, bouncy house, clowns.”

It sounded extreme for a two-year-old, but what did I know? I didn't have Dad papers.

“You got kids?” Roman said.

I barely hesitated. “A teenage girl.”

Roman laughed. “Yeah, good luck with that.” Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out his iPhone. He showed me backlit images of two sandy-haired children, both under ten. Their cheeks were so rosy that I would have sworn they were wearing rouge. “Those are mine. Six and eight. They'll be here.”

“Sounds like fun.”

His smile withered, his eyes scanning the property. “We're gonna have a lot of contractors in and out—rental companies for the carnival stuff, caterers, a clown, a deejay. A logistical nightmare. Fun? Maybe for the kids. I'll be working.” He put his phone away.

“How many other guys on security?”

“I have my own crew, guys I've trained. You'll make six.”

The backyard suddenly seemed three times the size it had on first glance, full of shadows and nooks in the foliage, behind the outbuildings, between the trees. I was glad to see the fence ringing the backyard, nearly hidden in shade. At least that would keep sugar-intoxicated kids from wandering back into the driveway, which would be busy.

Even with six of us, it would be a task to watch the property—especially since some of the personnel would be needed inside the house, no doubt. Personal security, perimeter watch, property damage. We needed to watch for paparazzi, interlopers, drunks, and thieves. Six was barely enough.

As Roman steered the golf cart along the length of the pool, I saw the woman and child splashing in the water at the far end about thirty yards from us, in a section cordoned off for wading. They had been obscured by a huge potted sable palm. A child's laugh pealed, carried across the water's green-blue surface. Maitlin and Nandi were in the pool.

Roman followed my eyes. “There's the boss lady,” he said.

In a splendid white bikini, no less, set off against bronze skin. Like most of the moviegoing world, I had already seen Sofia Maitlin naked—but
her bikini was sexier, leaving room for the imagination. The bikini top was overrun by her spilling breasts.
Damn, I love my life.
I put on my mirrored aviator sunglasses so my eyes could roam.

“It's a tough job—,” Roman began.

“But somebody's gotta do it.”

We pounded fists beneath the dashboard, out of sight, before we climbed out to walk to the pool's far end. Back to business. Maitlin waved, as if we could have missed her, climbing out of the pool with Nandi. The toddler shrieked a complaint, and Maitlin cooed to calm her. Once Nandi was safely on the tiles, Maitlin pulled on a white terry cloth robe.

Nandi's stubby legs pumped as she ran toward us.

“Ro-man!” she squealed. Her pattering feet were no more than six inches from the pool's rim as she ran with a toddler's unsteady gait. The girl could run fast.

Alarm shadowed Maitlin's face. “Nandi, no!” she cried, chasing her.

One swoop, and Nandi was in my arms. I lifted her from the armpits, raising her until she was at my eye level. Wet ringlets framed a tawny, fat-cheeked face that matched the fountain cherubs. Nandi's brown eyes were big and six feet deep, easy to fall into. Those eyes would be hard to say no to.

But I tried anyway. “Your mom said
no.
That means you stop—right?”

Nandi laughed as if I'd just told the world's funniest joke.
Mister, you've got a LOT to learn about me,
her laugh seemed to say. She leaned so close that her nose nearly touched my face. “Look, Mommy, I see
me!”
Nandi cried, captivated by my mirrored sunglasses.

“Very bad, Nandi!” Maitlin said, finally catching up. “What have I told you about
listening?”
Her cheeks were flushed from the scare. The wading pool was one thing, but the Mexican-tile marker at our end said that the pool was eight feet deep. I expected Maitlin to take Nandi right away, but she didn't.

“Good—you two get acquainted,” Maitlin said. “Nandi, this is Mr. Tennyson.”

Nandi's face scrunched into such a comical expression of confusion that Roman and I both laughed. I suddenly wished I'd had the chance
to give Chela a fraction of the childhood Nandi apparently had. Could Chela have looked much different as a two-year-old?

“Mr. Ten,” I said. “That's easier to say.”

“Mis-ter Ten!” Nandi said. “I can count! One, two . . . ten!”

“Mr. Ten is coming to your party,” Maitlin said.

“I'm having a birthday!” Nandi held up two fingers. “I'm two years old. One, two!”

“Two is the best birthday there is, Nandi,” I said, and Nandi nodded as if this were common knowledge. “You've grown a lot since the last time I saw you. You were just a baby.”

“I'm not a baby!” Nandi said.

“Not anymore, kiddo.” I was a little stunned by how much a few months had matured her. In Langa, I hadn't heard her speak a word of English. She already sounded like a native speaker.

A black woman in her midtwenties, whose hair was in a tightly curled natural, appeared from the back of the house, dressed in jeans and a Jill Scott concert T-shirt. The nanny, I guessed. If Sofia Maitlin was like most celebrity moms, she had at least one nanny, likely two—and the nanny probably lived at the house.

“Should I take her, Ms. Maitlin?” the woman said. I recognized her accent right away: She was from southern Africa.

“Yes, Zukisa, please get her dry and fix her lunch.”

Zukisa gave me a shy smile, barely meeting my eyes before she gathered Nandi into her arms. Zukisa's smile made her cheekbones leap to life. Pretty girl. Nandi chattered on as Zukisa walked with her toward the house, the rest of us already forgotten.

“Did she work at the orphanage?” I said.

“No—Mama Bessie couldn't spare anyone,” Maitlin said. “We interviewed nannies during the adoption process. I wanted a Xhosa speaker, so Nandi will keep up with her first language. I'm working on mine, but the clicks are killing me. She's so good with Nandi! I hope she'll stay until Nandi graduates from high school.” Maitlin suddenly clasped both of my hands. “Thanks for coming.”

“Anything to help. I'm happy everything has gone so well for you and Nandi.”

“Life is a blessing,” Maitlin said. I was glad she'd covered her bikini,
because her body would have been a distraction. I remembered our odd encounter in her bathroom, wondering if she was testing me again.

My iPhone vibrated in my front pocket.
Is that a phone in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?
I had received a text or an email, but it would have to wait. Probably Len, wanting a recap on our meeting at Maitlin's house. Len couldn't let go of the notion that Maitlin was secretly orchestrating my next career bump. Stranger things had happened.

“I was bringing him up to speed, Sophie,” Roman said, and Maitlin let my hands go.

“Good,” Maitlin said. “Then you know the basics. We're not expecting a problem, but we're not accustomed to so many people at the house. How's
Lenox Avenue,
Mr. Hardwick?”

I was glad she remembered. “Have an early set call on Monday, as a matter of fact. The dailies look like money.”

“Congratulations.”

I shrugged. “Just a start.”

“And not the end. You'll see.” She winked at me. At least I would have a bone to give Len to gnaw over when I called him back. “Remind me to introduce you to someone Sunday.” My heart did a minor flip until she went on, “Nandi's birth father will be here.”

That was a surprise. “But I thought . . .”

“He showed up during the adoption process. Apparently, he'd fallen out of touch with the mother, and never knew he had a child.”

“How . . .” My brain was stuttering. “How did he find out?”
Who sold you out, lady?

“Her face was on every television station and magazine. Apparently, she looks just like his kid sister. After the DNA test, we needed his consent, so we worked it all out. Now he's living in San Diego. He has visitation for birthdays and holidays.”

She said it cheerfully, but I could only imagine the stress that had added to her adoption process. I almost said
I'm sorry,
but maybe it was for the best. Hell, maybe it was a sign: If Maitlin could do it, so could I.

“I'm about to adopt my teenage ward,” I said. The phrase
teenage ward
sounded as if it should be followed by
Quick, Robin! To the Batpole!
“I need consent, too.”

Maitlin's face melted into approval, joy, admiration. Her eyes misted.
“That's so wonderful! Good luck, Ten,” she said, squeezing both of my hands again.

It was the first time Maitlin had called me anything except Mr. Hardwick, exactly as if she thought we were becoming friends. I hoped so.

Sofia Maitlin would be an excellent friend to have.

I was wrong about the message on my phone: The email was from my Mystery Lady. I was idling my car in Maitlin's carport when I checked my email, and the words on my phone's screen made me so paranoid that I looked over each shoulder to see if someone was watching me. Had Marsha followed me to Maitlin's house? I didn't think so. Only the gardeners were in sight, still fiercely trying to order nature's progress.

I read the note carefully and caught the subtle change in her signature: In her previous notes, she had been A friend
indeed.
She might be in trouble, or she wanted me to believe she was. She had done me a favor when I had a problem with Chela that might have gotten me locked up if I'd tried to fix it myself—and I don't expect favors to come for free.

If Marsha was playing me, she was definitely plucking all the right strings.

“You want to play?” I said under my breath. “Then let the games begin.”

I love Hugo's on Santa Monica Boulevard in West Hollywood—Chela and I ate there at least once a month for the terrific salads—which I assumed my Mystery Lady already knew. As I walked beneath the restaurant's green canopy, I was on familiar ground. And in new territory.

I was a minute early, but I didn't see anyone sitting alone at a table, or anyone who looked like she was waiting. The crowd huddled near the door included three young office girls on an adventure away from their cubicles, two agent types arguing over the Lakers, a family of Asian tourists, and a band of high school girls in a competition to look the most like Nicole Richie or Paris Hilton, waifish bodies beneath faces hidden by gigantic sunglasses.