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men of power are feared,
But only men of character are trusted.
—ALFRED ADLER
INTERSTATE 5 SOUTH,
NATIONAL CITY
12:05 PM PDT
THE THING WAS, Mick had no idea what the hell Heidi was up to. None. Since when did strippers read books on redesigning humans? The closest Tonya ever came to the science of redesigning humans was her slavish devotion to breast augmentation in the never-ending boob-battle with the Sri Lankan Bitch, a fight that had lead Mick to consider the possibility of one day being driven into boob-job bankruptcy.
So much for Mick’s one-time breast obsession.
The point was that while Heidi wasn’t acting like a traditional stripper, she was Mick’s only link to the photos and it was necessary— if he wanted to keep breathing— that he find the pics.
Taking Highway 54, Mick headed east.
❖
DEL REY CANYON was located on a high plateau and at moments driving up, Mick caught glimpses of a spectacular view of San Miguel mountain. But he hadn’t expected a gated-community, Rancho del Sol Estates, and when he pulled up to the security-hut and the guard came out with a clipboard asking him who he was there to see, Mick had to think fast.
“126 Del Rey Canyon Drive,” he said, remembering one of the addresses he’d seen on the SAN DIEGO COUNTY COMPARABLES web-page. “Wanna take a look at this house before it sells.”
The security guard consulted his clipboard. “Mr. Albright’s selling? Well, I’ll be. It’s the first I’ve heard of it.”
Mick smiled. “Went on the market today. My agent called me an hour ago, said I should get up here pronto.” He leaned out his window, glancing behind the Range Rover. “She was behind me. Must’ve took a wrong turn.” Looking back at the guard, Mick shook his head. “Sure hope I don’t lose out on this place because my agent went left when she shoulda gone right. If you know what I mean.”
The guard smiled. “I got a wife, you don’t need to remind me about women getting lost.” He paused a moment, taking in Mick’s Range Rover “Sir, if I might ask, what do you do for a living?”
“Sports agent. Football, mostly.”
“Anybody I know?”
“LaDanian Tomlinson?”
The guard’s eyes got big. “You’re LT’s agent?”
Mick nodded and said, “Marty Goldstein,” with no idea who LaDanian Tomlinson’s agent really was.
Of course, with the right attitude, you can pull off just about anything.
Shrugging, the guard said, “Well, I guess it’s all right if you go on in. Drive around, you’ll see for yourself why, for pure luxury, people prefer Rancho del Sol Estates to anything in San Diego county.”
TELL YOU WHAT? That security guard had a point.
When Mick thought of the most expensive properties in San Diego, he’d always thought Fairbanks Ranch or maybe Rancho Santa Fe, famous for people like Bill Gates and even the Sultan of Brunei. One time, Bivo’d got this wild hair about buying a place up there, got some real-estate agent to drive him around— Bivo delighted it was the agent burning gasoline and not him— then freaked out when the agent told him homes in the area go for ten-million plus, Bivo cursing and generally misbehaving. You know, Bivo being Bivo. And then, when the agent tried making a joke to diffuse the tension, Bivo took it personally. Two weeks later, the agent gets in an accident involving his RainBird yard sprinkler that lands him in a hospital with a lifelong aversion to lawn irrigation equipment and again, it was just Bivo being Bivo.
Now, driving Del Rey Canyon Drive, Mick thought any agent foolish enough to show Bivo properties in Rancho Del Sol Estates would be well advised to avoid all lawn irrigation systems forever. See, the homes along Del Rey Canyon Drive aren’t homes so much as they’re mansions, each well off the road and on several acres of property. You’ve got your sweeping Spanish-style villas and your southern plantations, the all-brick Georgians and the modern compounds, and there was at least one small castle, complete with two towers and a high wall straight out of an English postcard.
Turned out, the castle was 166 Del Rey Canyon Drive.
DRIVING PAST THE CASTLE, Mick could just make out a white Rolls-Royce parked far up the drive, the car visible through a massive wrought-iron gate. He turned the RangeRover around and parked in front of Mr. Albright’s place at 126 Del Rey Canyon, an English Tudor far too old-school for Mick’s taste, plus the fact it had at least eight fireplaces, judging by the chimneys, and Mick’d always been a central-heat kind of guy.
There was a gardener on a riding-mower trimming the grass out front of the castle wall and by that alone, Mick knew the owner was loaded. Nowadays, who can afford a white gardener?
Mick thought about Heidi.
You up here working an Anna-Nicole Smith? Cozy up to the millionaire and wait ‘til he dies?
Mick thought it wasn’t so far-fetched. Heidi was a hell of a lot better looking than Anna-Nicole and orders of magnitude smarter. And Mick knew first-hand she was a consummate player, the kind of woman always thinks two moves ahead.
But if you were working that, you wouldn’t have checked out of the house . . . So where’d you go?
The wrought-iron gate opened and a moment later, the white Rolls emerged, rolled down the driveway and turned right, headed back towards the front gate.
Without even thinking about it, Mick settled in behind, maybe following, maybe just leaving Rancho del Sol Estates, he didn’t know, he’d find out later.
At the front gate, when the security guard said, “My that was fast,” Mick thought of Bivo. “You think I’m gonna pay that kinda money for South County? You crazy? I’d rather live with Turks!”
The security guard got a perplexed look and Mick passed without another word.
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