from the front desk is bringing up an urgent fax for him.”
“If he doesn’t answer?” the manager asked.
“Hang up. I’ll try later.” And he’d do it in person.
The manager rang the room. And rang it. And rang it.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said finally. “No one answers.”
Sam thanked her and headed for the motor coach that was the task force’s home away from home. As he walked, he kept glancing at the photo, wondering if it was going to be more help than the name had been. The photo wasn’t a great likeness of “Natalie,” butSam figured that a bald man who was hugging-close to the con artist would recognize her quick enough.
As for Kennedy and Sizemore, they could use a magnifying glass on their copies of the photo and then shove the works up where the sun didn’t shine.
Chapter 12
Los Angeles
Tuesday
3:00 P.M .
The headquarters of Hall Jewelry International was in an old building, where a four billion dollar boondoggle—also known as a subway four miles long—had been built to bring thousands of people to the aging central downtown area. But building a subway on top of the complex San Andreas fault system hadn’t been a good idea. Eventually politics gave way to reality and L.A. returned to buses and cars as usual, leaving the old downtown stranded well away from the wealth and new buildings of the Miracle Mile.
From the outside, Hall Jewelry International was a modest six stories with a rooftop cornice and false columns that harkened back to slower, kinder times. Inside, it was modern hustle and security. Contrary to the usual practice of outsourcing everything to Asia or India, it was a point of pride with the company that some of Hall’s gemstones were cut and polished in the barnlike basement with open plumbing overhead and coded locks on the doors. The first floor was the flagship jewelry store. The second floor was taken up by offices and visiting salesmen hawking everything from synthetic turquoise to the latest patterns in ten-carat gold chains. The rest of the floors were given over to assembling jewelry from various internationalpieces—chains from Italy, gems from Thailand and Brazil, catches and pins from Mexico. The result was inexpensive jewelry for America’s endless malls, nearly all of which had a Hall Jewelry store somewhere in their air-conditioned expanse.
Peyton Hall, the heir apparent to the whole operation, was doing an unannounced check of the cleanliness and appeal of the flagship store’s displays when the manager spotted him and rushed over.
“Mr. Hall, how nice to see you,” she said. “If we’d expected you, I would have had coffee and pastries brought in.”
“No need,” he said, shaking her hand. “I have to catch a plane soon. I just wanted a final look at our summer and fall offerings before I go to Scottsdale. Has my uncle arrived?”
“Not yet. He—”
“I’m right behind you,” a male voice cut in. Geraldo de Selva shared his sister’s dark coloring and confidence. “I was just going over the books with your mother.”
The dark hair and confidence of the Selva family had been passed on to Peyton, with the addition of his father’s hazel eyes and relentless sex drive. The result was a shrewd businessman and married womanizer with two children. Though Peyton was impatient to run the family business, he was smart enough not to piss off his mother’s younger brother, who was in charge until his mother said otherwise.
And that was the problem. Geraldo was only eight years older than Peyton. By the time his uncle was ready to retire as CEO, Peyton would be lucky to be alive. The Selva clan members routinely lived to be a hundred.
Peyton’s daddy had checked out at fifty-three. Peyton didn’t figure he’d see seventy. As he was forty-nine now, that didn’t leave a whole lot of time to make his own personal fortune so that he could spend his last decadent decades chasing young foreign women and drinking expensive old
“If he doesn’t answer?” the manager asked.
“Hang up. I’ll try later.” And he’d do it in person.
The manager rang the room. And rang it. And rang it.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said finally. “No one answers.”
Sam thanked her and headed for the motor coach that was the task force’s home away from home. As he walked, he kept glancing at the photo, wondering if it was going to be more help than the name had been. The photo wasn’t a great likeness of “Natalie,” butSam figured that a bald man who was hugging-close to the con artist would recognize her quick enough.
As for Kennedy and Sizemore, they could use a magnifying glass on their copies of the photo and then shove the works up where the sun didn’t shine.
Chapter 12
Los Angeles
Tuesday
3:00 P.M .
The headquarters of Hall Jewelry International was in an old building, where a four billion dollar boondoggle—also known as a subway four miles long—had been built to bring thousands of people to the aging central downtown area. But building a subway on top of the complex San Andreas fault system hadn’t been a good idea. Eventually politics gave way to reality and L.A. returned to buses and cars as usual, leaving the old downtown stranded well away from the wealth and new buildings of the Miracle Mile.
From the outside, Hall Jewelry International was a modest six stories with a rooftop cornice and false columns that harkened back to slower, kinder times. Inside, it was modern hustle and security. Contrary to the usual practice of outsourcing everything to Asia or India, it was a point of pride with the company that some of Hall’s gemstones were cut and polished in the barnlike basement with open plumbing overhead and coded locks on the doors. The first floor was the flagship jewelry store. The second floor was taken up by offices and visiting salesmen hawking everything from synthetic turquoise to the latest patterns in ten-carat gold chains. The rest of the floors were given over to assembling jewelry from various internationalpieces—chains from Italy, gems from Thailand and Brazil, catches and pins from Mexico. The result was inexpensive jewelry for America’s endless malls, nearly all of which had a Hall Jewelry store somewhere in their air-conditioned expanse.
Peyton Hall, the heir apparent to the whole operation, was doing an unannounced check of the cleanliness and appeal of the flagship store’s displays when the manager spotted him and rushed over.
“Mr. Hall, how nice to see you,” she said. “If we’d expected you, I would have had coffee and pastries brought in.”
“No need,” he said, shaking her hand. “I have to catch a plane soon. I just wanted a final look at our summer and fall offerings before I go to Scottsdale. Has my uncle arrived?”
“Not yet. He—”
“I’m right behind you,” a male voice cut in. Geraldo de Selva shared his sister’s dark coloring and confidence. “I was just going over the books with your mother.”
The dark hair and confidence of the Selva family had been passed on to Peyton, with the addition of his father’s hazel eyes and relentless sex drive. The result was a shrewd businessman and married womanizer with two children. Though Peyton was impatient to run the family business, he was smart enough not to piss off his mother’s younger brother, who was in charge until his mother said otherwise.
And that was the problem. Geraldo was only eight years older than Peyton. By the time his uncle was ready to retire as CEO, Peyton would be lucky to be alive. The Selva clan members routinely lived to be a hundred.
Peyton’s daddy had checked out at fifty-three. Peyton didn’t figure he’d see seventy. As he was forty-nine now, that didn’t leave a whole lot of time to make his own personal fortune so that he could spend his last decadent decades chasing young foreign women and drinking expensive old
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