Unscripted Read online

  7

  MEGAN WATCHED Danny climb the hotel’s front stairs, his motions uncertain. When he opened the front door she heard music. She was drawn by the sound and the mystery of who might be playing inside a closed hotel that had become her legal responsibility. But this call could not wait.

  When the door squeaked shut and she was alone with the cars and the drifting mist, Megan phoned her boss on his direct line. She had been expressly ordered not to use this number unless, as Aaron Seibel had put it, a million-dollar judgment hung in the balance. Even then, Megan had been ordered to think twice. She stood in the murky light and recalled that strange first day, and how two other young associates had actually written down his words as if they were taking orders from on high. She had found it vaguely ridiculous. What kind of boss made himself unavailable to his own subordinates?

  As she coded in the number, she found herself amazed at the events that had led her here. To a hotel at the end of a road to nowhere. Ready to walk away from everything she had fought so hard to obtain.

  Seven years earlier, Megan had been one of nineteen new lawyers taken on by Kleber and Klaufstein, the undisputed king of Hollywood law. On their first day, Megan’s boss had welcomed them with the announcement that there were slots for four of their group to advance. Within the next twenty-two months, the rest would be sacked.

  Nine months after that introduction to LA law, Megan survived the first cut. A year later, she survived the second series of dismissals. She put in the ninety-hour weeks. She did without a private life. Her few disastrous dates were with men as driven and superficial as she had become. Her exercise was done in the firm’s basement gym, where she dictated email and worked on briefs while she ran. Just another little rat in the cage of her own making.

  A year and a half later, she made the third cut and was granted the right to print new calling cards bearing the title of senior associate. Megan began taking on a few clients of her own. But the glamour was lost now. She was finding it harder and harder to remember what exactly had drawn her to LA in the first place.

  Three and a half months ago Megan had been working through a brief when her boss called her into the meeting where she met Pei-Lun Zhang. There was no need for Aaron to order her and another associate to attend. But the unspoken code at Kleber and Klaufstein was, never use one attorney when they could bill three.

  Megan liked Pei-Lun Zhang from that very first moment. He was soft-spoken, direct, polite, everything her boss was not. Megan loathed Aaron’s casual derision, the way he said with every gesture that an investor with five million dollars was below his radar. Megan had tried to counteract his unspoken scorn with a genuine warmth. Her boss was only too happy to assign her the client. As she led Zhang from the conference room, she saw her boss and the other senior associate share a smirk.

  As soon as they were back in her office, Megan’s first words to Zhang were, “You know, a headhunter would probably serve you just as well. Maybe better.”

  Zhang revealed an ability to bow while seated. He spoke in that slow, careful cadence she would come to know all too well. “Can you find me this person?”

  “If they exist, absolutely.”

  “Please.” He had offered his hand, sealing the deal. “Do.”

  Now, standing in front of Thrashers Ridge Hotel, Megan felt utterly calm about her next move. Especially after her boss answered the phone with his standard response, “Go away,” and cut the connection.

  If her situation had been different, Megan might have laughed out loud. She stared out over the lawn and the mist and replied, “No problem.”

  She had expected nothing less, but it still hurt. She swallowed against the burn and placed the call to the legal secretary responsible for dismissals. Agnes was paid an extra fifteen thousand per year to handle the hated duty.

  Megan identified herself and announced, “I’m resigning from the firm. Effective immediately.”

  “Hold a moment, please, and let me draw up your file.” Agnes typed swiftly. “I always thought you were a survivor.”

  Megan sorted through a number of different responses, then decided to remain silent.

  “All right, dear. I am obliged to read you the following.” Agnes ran through the legal requirements and warnings, then asked, “Do you understand and accept the firm’s statutes on dismissal?”

  “I do. But I’m not being dismissed. I’m quitting.”

  “The firm’s position is the same. Are you seeking to take any of the firm’s current clients with you?”

  It was an unfair question, totally out of line. But typical of the firm’s aggressive nature. “No, I am not,” she said. Then, “Wait.”

  “Yes?”

  Megan thought swiftly. Daniel Byrd had never been listed as a client of K&K. There was no need to alert anyone to what might be developing with him. But the would-be Chinese investor was another matter. “There might be one.”

  “Might be? Dear, you have no idea how difficult they can make life if they even catch a hint that you are poaching clients.”

  Actually, she knew all too well. “I’m not certain he will ever actually become my client. And if he did, I don’t think K&K is interested. Just the same, it’s best if you check his file. The client’s name is Pei-Lun Zhang.”

  “Spell that, dear.”

  She did so. And waited.

  Finally Agnes replied, “I don’t show any such name under the client list.”

  “Check billing.”

  “I just did. Could it be listed under the company name?”

  “We hadn’t gotten around to incorporating when he was called back to China,” Megan replied. “There has to be something. He paid me by cashier’s check the first time, and travelers’ checks the second.”

  “Hang on a second, let me check . . . Yes. Here it is. There is a notation under payments received by you. From a Mister Pay.” She spelled the name on her file. “I imagine it was how Aaron referred to him in the original notes, and accounts couldn’t be bothered to correct his error.” Agnes was silent for a moment, then asked, “Megan, do you have any files in your office for this man?”

  “Two. Right bottom drawer. Under ‘Zhang.’”

  “Why don’t I just mail them to your home? Clearly there’s no interest here. And I’m certain this gentleman would be well served to go with you.”

  “Agnes, I owe you big-time.”

  “That’s sweet, but it’s not necessary.” Another hesitation, then, “I don’t often say this, but I will miss you, dear.”

  Megan thanked her a second time, then cut the connection. She stood listening to the faint melody drifting through the hotel’s entrance. There was a second call she needed to make without delay. She hit speed dial, and when her mother answered, Megan asked, “Are you alone?”

  “Hang on.” They had developed a terse code so that nothing that might disturb Megan’s father was said in his presence. Richard Pierce was extremely observant. Any hint of tension impacted his ability to breathe. Megan heard a door shut, then her mother said, “All right. What’s the matter?”

  Megan took a long breath. “I’ve quit my job.”

  Her mother expelled a long breath. “When?”

  “Today.” She swiftly recounted the morning’s events.

  Sarah asked, “How do you feel?”

  “Okay, I suppose. Calm. Numb.” She stared out over the vague landscape to where the northern hills dissolved into shades of brown and grey. “I worked so hard to make it happen. Now I’m just walking away.”

  “Megan . . . Where are you now?”

  “Just up the street. Literally.”

  “What?”

  “A new client has inherited Thrashers Ridge. Part of it, anyway.”

  “So we’re getting a new neighbor in the bargain. What is he like?”

  Megan turned toward the hotel entrance. “I don’t know him very well. But I think . . . nice.”

  “Can you stop by? I want your father to hear the news directly
from you.”

  “When I finish here, sure. Why don’t you want to tell him?”

  “Honey, we’ve both been waiting years for you to leave that firm. Your father has been feeling low recently. I haven’t wanted to say anything, given the stress you’ve been under. But this news will do him a world of good.”

  8

  THE HOTEL’S FRONT DOORS opened into an old-fashioned cloakroom, a blend of entrance hall and waiting area. Wooden benches and shelves and even the coat hooks were carved with patterns of birds rising from blooming trees. The walls, floor, and beamed ceiling were all done in tongue-and-groove paneling. Glass double doors leading into the main parlor were etched with images of birds in flight. They were propped open such that the music fashioned a welcome.

  The cloakroom was as far as Danny got. He seated himself on the side bench, positioned so that he could lean forward and study the musician, then settle back and stay out of sight.

  The girl was stationed in the middle of a huge chamber. Her music stand held an iPad connected to a portable amplifier. Danny guessed her age to be somewhere around thirteen. Yet there was none of the coltish awkwardness of most young teens. Instead, she held herself with a womanly grace. She wore cutoffs and rope-soled sandals and a T-shirt big enough to slip down over one shoulder. Her hair was the color of polished cedar, a warm mix of dark blonde and copper. She was tall, perhaps five eight, with long, slender hands. She played with her eyes closed, swaying slightly to the music.

  She was, in a word, beautiful.

  She played a tenor sax, and her fingering was elegant, smooth, highly professional. What was more, she didn’t seem to be following the direction of any sheet music. She was interpreting. She played notes from her head in time to the melody. If Danny had not already seen her, he would have assumed the artist was full-grown, a professional at the height of a successful career. She was that good.

  The music took Danny straight back. Not the particular melody, but the sound and what it represented. When the song ended, he moved over a trace, staying well out of sight. The last thing he wanted was to interrupt her flow.

  She hummed a quiet note as she selected a new tune. The instant the song began, Danny recognized it as from the pianist Keiko Matsui. He thought it was off her latest album, Journey to the Heart, but he couldn’t be certain.

  The girl played fusion jazz, music that had formed a lifeline for a younger Danny. His last foster father had been a retired Marine. The man had not spoken much. But he had impressed Danny with his ability to keep his own natural fury under tight control. He had arranged for Danny to take lessons in Sho Ray, the Korean form of unarmed combat. And he had introduced Danny to fusion jazz. The music had formed the basis for many of their happiest conversations.

  The tune ended. Danny leaned forward to watch the girl as she placed the tenor sax in its stand and picked up a second instrument, a straight alto sax. Higher pitched than the tenor, its straight-line form gave it something of a clarinet tone.

  An early love ballad by Kenny G, one of his foster dad’s favorites, filled the room. Danny leaned forward to study the room. The central chamber was at least forty feet to a side and quite possibly just as tall. A second-floor balcony ran along the two sides he could see from his position, supported by alternating pillars of cedar and redwood. The room’s dimensions formed a perfect baffle for the girl’s music.

  Then Danny spotted another woman. She was seated in an alcove directly opposite the foyer, positioned well behind the girl. Clearly her intention was to remain as unseen as Danny. The woman’s features were creased with vivid agony. She wept, one hand covering her eyes. Danny felt like a voyeur, observing such naked emotions.

  As soon as the tune ended, Danny coughed, rose from the bench, shuffled his feet, coughed again, then stepped through the entrance.

  The young girl compressed her face into a sullen mask as she set the alto sax back on its stand, then cut off the iPad and the amp. She slipped past him and fled without a word or backward glance.

  When the girl was out the door and gone, the woman approached Danny and tried to smile around her tears. “I guess this is hardly the welcome you expected.”

  “It’s okay,” he replied. He wished he could fit some better words into the moment, but he had no idea what to say. “I’m Danny Byrd.”

  “Robin Sturgis.”

  Danny recognized the name from the documents he had been studying. “You’re the hotel bookkeeper.”

  Her nod released another tear. “Sol Feinnes called and said you were coming up. He asked me to meet you.” She indicated the empty space at the center of the grand room. “That was my daughter, Emma.”

  “She is one amazing talent.”

  “She is. Yes. Emma . . .” Robin’s sigh shook her frame. She was a slight woman, delicately boned but suggesting a ballerina’s tensile strength. The similarity between her and Emma was unmistakable. Despite her evident burdens, Robin was a lovely woman. “My husband died the year before last.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  She wiped her face with unsteady hands. “He was a police officer in Buellton. He was shot in the line of duty. Emma . . .”

  “She’s angry with the world that took him away.”

  Robin seemed to see him for the first time. “Yes.”

  “I understand.”

  “You do, don’t you.” Her gaze returned to the empty music stand. “That last song was one of my husband’s favorites.”

  Danny nodded. “It’s the only way she lets herself grieve. Now she’s upset that I saw.”

  Robin showed him genuine gratitude. “Would you like me to show you around?”

  There were a dozen questions Danny needed to pose. Hundreds. And this woman was clearly his best hope of obtaining answers. But just then, his brain was locked down. Completely unable to dislodge itself from an unfinished idea. Danny knew from Robin’s glances that she expected him to launch into interrogation mode. And it needed to happen, sooner rather than later. But just then . . .

  They were doing a tour of the upstairs bedrooms when Danny was finally able to give his unfinished idea a name. He stood by the balcony railing, looking down on the hotel’s main parlor, searching for the missing fragments.

  Robin asked, “Is something wrong?”

  Danny shook his head. He had no choice but to move without being able to take aim. The clock was against him. “Where is your daughter?”

  “Where . . .” Robin’s gaze tightened. “Why do you ask?”

  “I need to speak with her. And you need to hear it.”

  She watched him turn from the railing. “Don’t you want to know—”

  “Yes. Absolutely. But this can’t wait. Where is she?”

  “I don’t . . . Probably out by the lake.”

  “Okay. Let’s . . . No, hang on. I need to make a call.”

  Danny knew he was worrying her, the only connection he had to this place and its mysteries. But the ticking clock was a drumbeat loud as thunder. He raced down the stairs and found Megan doing a slow circuit of the main parlor.

  She said, “This place is amazing.”

  “I know. Robin Sturgis, this is my attorney, Megan Pierce. Both of you, come now, please.” He crossed the boot room, burst through the front doors, and dialed as he took the steps. When Greg answered, Danny demanded, “What’s the latest?”

  “I thought I had until tomorrow.”

  “No time. How is your story coming together?”

  Greg sighed. “Nothing. We got nothing at all.”

  “I need you to come up here.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Solvang. A town about forty minutes north of Santa Barbara.”

  “Danny, now isn’t a good time. Every second counts.”

  “That’s why you need to come. Tomorrow. And bring Annie.”

  There was a silence so intense Danny heard the crackle of passing time.

  Finally Greg asked, “So, are you in?”

  “What? Yes
, Greg. You think I’d ask you up so we could discuss terms?”

  “I don’t—no, I guess . . .”

  “Yes. I’m in. Will you come?”

  Greg’s response was a full octave higher. “Are you kidding? Yes, of course I’ll come.”

  “Good. Great. And bring a cameraman. Digital. And whoever you bring, make sure they’re good on the sound tech side.”

  Greg hesitated. Danny waited for an argument, a protest, but Greg’s response was almost lighthearted. “So what’s in Solvang?”

  “I’m not sure. But I think . . .”

  “What?”

  “I think I’ve found what we need.”

  9

  DANNY AND MEGAN FOLLOWED Robin along a path of redwood chips bordered by railroad ties. The path rounded a largish barn, then ran along a corral missing a number of cross ties, before arriving at the lake’s perimeter. Emma was seated on a bench facing the mist-clad water. The far shore was lost to the dim light.

  Emma gave no indication she noticed their approach. Her expression was stony, her beauty at direct odds with her expression. She sat there, her shoulders hunched and features pinched, doing her best to shut out the world.

  Danny had not been this nervous since his first arraignment, standing before the judge with his public defender. He had known that guy was a loser the moment he’d opened his mouth. Just like then, Danny had no idea what to do or say.

  Strangely, he found her willful isolation actually helped him. He recognized the emotion. More than that, it forged a bond he could both understand and name.

  He could see that Robin was about to say something, but he reached out and touched her arm. He said quietly, “Five minutes and you’ll understand.”

  Before Robin could respond, Danny stepped up to where Emma could see him without turning her head. “We need to talk.”

  She did not glance over. “What are they doing here?”

  “They need to hear this too.” Danny indicated the bench next to her. “Can I sit down?”

  She gave a fractional shrug.