Heart of the World by Linda Barnes Page B

didn’t care. I wanted to smell a breeze that floated in over a blue ocean instead of an icy gray-green sea. After this is cleared up, after it's over, I promised myself, Paolina and I will come here and soak up the sun on a sandy beach. I’ll buy her the best strawberry ice cream cone in town.
    When the cab pulled up in front of a three-story cement-and tinted-glass structure, I hauled my duffel out onto hot pavement, tipped the driver, and checked my watch. Twenty minutes to spare.
    The landscaping was elegant; the palms and colorful broadleafed plants meticulously pruned and groomed. Entering the lobby felt like entering a cold-storage locker. Inside the frosted-glass doors, the parquet flooring and wide stairway were guarded by a grandfatherly rent-a-cop. I threw him a smile and asked to use a bathroom. He grinned back like I’d made his day and ushered me toward a corner door.
    I splashed cold water on my face and made an attempt to tame my hair. The humidity had done its work, making it wilder than usual. I found a clip in my backpack, wound my hair into a curly mass, and plunked it on top of my head. As I held a damp paper towel to the back of my neck, the eyes of a woman who hadn’t slept in days stared at me from the mirror.
    I signed “Janice Ford” in the logbook at the desk. Grandpa beamed and asked whether I’d like to leave my duffel with him. When I declined he said fine and nodded me toward the stairs without bothering to search my belongings. He didn’t check my name against any list of appointments or phone to see whether a Ms. Ford was expected.
    Haley, Briggs, and Associates, on the second floor, was the formal name of Vandenburg's firm. As I climbed the steps, I wondered howmany associates worked there and what the nature of that work might be. If they all labored for drug cartels, I’d have expected more than Gramps in the way of security.
    The waiting room smelled like money—spacious, with fresh flowers and plush gray carpet. I gave my phony name to the tanned receptionist. When I use an alias I often pick a last name suggestive of family wealth.
    â€œHe’ll be with you as soon as he's available,” she said automatically. She was a little too young, a bit too flashily dressed for the surroundings.
    The oil paintings on the walls didn’t look like reproductions, misty sea scenes with romantic sails in the distance, hints of tropical lushness echoed by gleaming plants and polished mahogany. Architectural Digest and Travel and Leisure sat on the coffee table like invitations to a never-never land of the idle rich.
    There were two squishy blue sofas and three print chairs, but I was the only one waiting. Five minutes passed. Ten. A famous actor I’d never heard of owned a massive house in Malibu constucted of sheet metal, old rubber tires, and blue glass. Twenty. I was contemplating breaking in on Vanden-burg and ousting his client or tossing his lunch out the window when the receptionist approached, apologizing for the delay. I followed her through a paneled doorway and down a long cool corridor. She knocked at a door on the right, waited for a low, “Come in,” before turning the brass knob.
    The receptionist gave my phony name, nodded, and closed the door.
    I’d never met Vandenburg, but we’d spoken on the phone and I recalled his unctuous voice. A smooth operator, a genial shark, that's how I’d envisioned him. Now he rose from behind his imposing desk, a man who’d probably played a little college ball, a good-old-boy, go-along-get-along guy with the easy smile that would get him into the right fraternity, the polish to impress the right people. A fall of blond hair drooped boyishly across his forehead. His suit was charcoal, his smile dazzling, his handclasp firm. The airy office was filled with sleek furniture, healthy plants, and photos of blond children so perfect they might have been issued along with the silver