A Man's Face E-Book

B. Roman

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

A scar from cheek to chin is all Marc Jordan remembers of the man kneeling over his dead mother.

Now, 15 years later, Marc searches his memory for clues; he hopes to be the first to find the killer. Murder, blackmail, corruption and betrayal leave a trail from the storied vineyards of Spain to the wineries of Southern California, where no one is who or what they claim to be.

Forced to accept a court case he does not want, Marc inadvertently unravels the threads that lead to solving his mother’s murder. But with each revelation, his life spirals more and more out of control.

A Man’s Face is a multi-generational saga of treachery and corruption, set against the backdrop of the elite wine industry and courtroom drama.

Leseprobe

A MAN’S FACE

B. ROMAN

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

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About the Author

Copyright (C) 2020 B. Roman

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter

Published 2021 by Next Chapter

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

As my own writer, editor, and researcher, I have done my best to incorporate the laws and court procedures of the state of California accurately. If I have made any errors or taken any license, it has been in my attempt to create a compelling story. I hope I have succeeded.

My sincere thanks to my publisher, Next Chapter, who has supported my writing projects and found them worthy to be added to the Next Chapter family of books, alongside an amazingly talented group of authors.

CHAPTERONE

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO

She only wants to light a small fire to ease her anxiety. The oak wood will be quick to ignite and the promise of lingering golden ribbons of light flickering in the dark fills her with anticipation. The wine barrel aging cave at the far end of the vineyard is her sanctuary, the secret place she retreats to when she feels alone and longing for the mother who deserted her. One keg is all she needs on this night. A symbolic destruction of her father’s precious winery.

The fire lighting began with little things, like playing with matches as a child and watching paper burn in the trash can in her room. At first it was a bizarre curiosity, but now, as her personal pain intensifies, the need for thrills grows stronger. It’s her father’s fault her mother ran away to their family home in Spain and she is forbidden to follow her. She’s a virtual prisoner while Miguel, her troublemaking brother, takes up their father’s time and attention as he is rescued out of one scrape after another.

She drizzles the lighter fluid on the barrel and ignites it with a long, elegant fireplace match. The oak wood keg soon glows with mesmerizing flames promising a long, slow burn. Unexpectedly, embers from the keg decide to jump to a carelessly open can of combustible ethyl alcohol. There is a snap, pop and whooshing sound as the fire finds its path, and in moments the entire shed is ablaze. The flames are higher than she expected, the blaze more encompassing than she had planned. Acrid black smoke billows out and almost blinds her, but she stands in place stunned, entranced. She breathes heavily, but not from the smoke.  It is a nubile girl’s first foray into orgasmic pleasure. The sight is dangerous and magical at the same time. The relief from her heartache is glorious. It’s her finest fire yet.

Anabel gasps in surprise when she is scooped up off her feet and carried out into the oppressively hot night air. She is lithe and light, and the strong arms of Franco easily lift her away from danger.

“What have you done, Anabel?” Franco yells at his boss’s daughter. “What have you done this time?” He frantically pulls the hose from its wheel and runs back into the burning structure.

No. She can’t let him do it. She can’t let him douse this thrill. She turns off the faucet and the hose trickles an impotent stream of water, leaving Franco with an expression of confusion. An explosion rips through the shed sending its contents up and out in every direction. His screams are animal-like, an agonizing sound that no human could emit. Flames scorch his entire body, but Anabel is impervious to his pain. She is out of her own body, transported to a blissful world.

Franco Jourdain perishes, leaving his wife a widow and his son fatherless. Witnessing the kaleidoscopic fury that she created, teenager Anabel Estrella Ibarra feels an ecstasy beyond anything she has ever experienced.

The jagged edge of a smashed beer bottle rips across Miguel’s cheek. He screams in pain. Blood drips down his chin. He reaches his hand up to stop the red stream, but it’s futile. Shock turns into macho anger and he lunges at his assailant with gusto. He plows into him head first and knocks him to the floor. As they grapple fiercely with one another Miguel’s bloody hand stains the thug’s shirt. Miguel pants heavily and shakes his head trying to keep himself alert. He is young and strong but, being besotted by too much gin, he is no match for the sinewy man who now rises and threatens to tear him in two.

Heeding the warning of the bat-wielding bar manager to “take the fight outside,” Miguel runs out the door and to his car, which waits for him like a faithful horse just steps away. He jumps inside and starts the ignition, still looking backward to see how much of a lead he has on the Bulldog chasing him.

Miguel screeches out of the parking space and plows into a woman who has just crossed his path. She flies in the air and lands on the windshield, not hard enough to smash it, but enough to blind Miguel. He involuntarily accelerates and hits her again as her body rolls off the hood to the ground. Panicked, he jumps out of the car, motor still humming, and runs for his life, not knowing or caring if the victim is dead or alive.

“Holy Jesus!” Bulldog is shocked by the sight and forgets who or what he is chasing. He runs over to the woman to see if she’s breathing but has to turn her over, carelessly getting her blood on his hands. “Jesus.” He knows she’s dead and there is nothing he can do. He picks up her purse to see if there is cash inside, but drops it when he hears the siren of the Black and White bearing down on the scene. Rising in haste he trips and braces himself on the hood of the car, which now sports his bloody handprint.

Bulldog jumps into Miguel’s car and tears off down the road.

“Man. Oh, man. What the hell do I do now?” Coming out of his mental fog Bulldog realizes that the car is a pricey sports job and now a petri dish of DNA evidence. He figures it’s worth a lot just in parts, so he heads to Whitey’s chop shop to unload it.

“What the hell happened to you?” Whitey asks, observing Bulldog’s disheveled clothes and the smears of blood.

Bulldog is still breathless. “Bar fight with some punk kid. But I nailed him. Scarred that pretty boy face of his good.”

Years of dealing with low-rent scum like Bulldog have allowed Whitey to develop a “business only” attitude. He usually could care less about the circumstances or crimes involved. But not this time, not this car.

Whitey looks over the bright red Zonda from bumper to bumper and whistles low in admiration. “Where did you get this hot item?” And I mean hot.”

“I won it in the fight,” Bulldog replies, not exactly lying.

“You mean it belongs to the kid you beat up.”

“It did. Not any more. What can you give me? Is it worth a lot?”

Bulldog is, Whitey knows, a complete moron when it comes to cars and their value. He can’t think past his next bottle of bourbon and night with a hooker, so he’s an easy con.

Inspecting the front end, Whitey hedges. “It’s a beauty but it’s got some dents and tears. What did you do, hit a deer?”

“Like there are deer around here.” Bulldog is trembling now, feeling reality closing in on him. “Stop screwing around and give me a price, damn it.”

Whitey remains cool and unflinching. “Well, we can deal. But I’ll have to inspect the car and see how much trouble it will be to dismantle and unload before I can make you an offer. Come by tomorrow and I’ll have some cash for you.”

“Tomorrow? I need it now, maybe to lay low for awhile.”

“Sorry, Bulldog, I’m getting ready to close. All the guys are gone, the machines are shut down and my calculator is off.”

In no position to negotiate, Bulldog relents. “Okay. Okay. Tomorrow. First thing. I’ll be here when you open.”

“I’ll be here when you get here. And better get rid of that shirt before you come back.”

Whitey locks the shop door after Bulldog and gives the Zonda an expert’s comprehensive examination. There is only one person he knows of who owns this buggy, only one man who could afford to buy it for his son in a private deal Whitey himself made. He speed dials a phone number. “Hey, Ibarra,” he addresses the man who answers. “We’ve got a problem...”

Minutes later, Whitey slips on some white cotton gloves, puts covers on his grease-stained shoes and buttons up a clean smock. As agreed, he drives the car a few blocks away from the bar, with no headlights on, and parks it in a dark alley, the keys still in the ignition. He touches nothing, leaves not a fingerprint or trace of his involvement. The VIN number and phony license plates have been removed, the interior wiped clean. The car is untraceable. He removes the smock, shoe covers and gloves, and stuffs them in his carry bag, then stealthily returns to his shop.

Miguel barrels through the door of his father’s house and confronts the shocked man with, “Pop - you’ve got to help me.” He is breathless from running full clip the five miles from the bar to the estate, which is tucked conveniently off of a dirt road and away from spying eyes.

Amador Ibarra is stunned at the sight of his son’s injury. “What happened to you? Your face! Who did this to you, Miguel?”

“Some thug in a bar. I can’t even remember what the fight was about. He slashed me with a broken beer bottle.”

“What do you mean you can’t remember? Were you that drunk?” The senior Ibarra shakes his head in disdain, steeling himself to rescue his son from yet another stupid error in judgement. “I’m calling the doctor.”

“No. I can’t trust anyone to know what happened.”

“But you said it was just a bar fight. It’s not your first.”

“It wasn’t just the fight. I think - I think I killed someone, a woman.”

A dazed look freezes Ibarra’s face. This changes everything. “What do you mean, Miguel? How did you kill someone? Tell me everything.”

The boy, barely 18 and still an immature hothead, bursts into tears and blubbers on about the car, the woman, her body, and how he ran away.

“My God. You left a woman to die in the street? I don’t know how to fix this one, Miguel. Wait - where is your car? Is it still there?” He can’t let his son know what he knows until he hears the full story.

“I - I don’t know. I left it and ran.”

“For all the world to see and identify! Let me think.” Ibarra rubs his forehead, in a quandary. “Go upstairs and put some gauze on that cut. I’ll call Dr. Ruiz. He’s discreet.”

“Thanks, Pop. I owe you one. Anything. Just fix this.”

Helena Morales hesitates, the carving knife still in her hand. She is a skilled chef, inheriting her talents from her mother who also gifted Helena with the set of hand-crafted knives engraved with the initials HM on the ivory handles. Startled, she turns at the sound of the screen door opening and closing.

“Oh, it’s you.” She puts down the knife, which is sticky with calf’s brains, and waves the unwelcome visitor away, annoyed.

“Please, Helena. I must talk with you. I can’t stand that you are angry.”

“It’s not the first time. I am not someone you can toy with. Leave me alone.”

“Mi amor, please let me explain.” He grabs her hand but she pulls away.

“No. No more lies. I’m tired of it. I should never have gotten involved with you after Franco died.” The memory of her husband’s grisly death forms a pained expression on Helena’s face.

He tries to cajole her with sweet talk and hands that move to caress her cheek. Helena shoves him away hard and raises the knife at him. He stumbles and his back hits the kitchen counter. A shooting pain sets him off. “Jesús que lastima! Bitch! I’ll show you what it means to hurt.”

He kicks her shin to stun her and she drops the knife. He grabs her by the arm and twists it behind her back. She is screaming now, “Stop it! Stop it! You’ll break my arm!”

He lets up a bit and Helena falls to her knees. “Get out! You are crazy!”

“Crazy for you. I love it when you are all full of fire.”

He grabs her by her luxuriant waist-length hair and tries to mount her from behind, but Helena finds her strength and rolls over onto him. They both scramble for the knife at the same time. A fierce battle ensues, but one prevails. In a moment it is over. The 6-inch blade disappears into her rib cage and Helena lies on the floor in a pool of oozing blood.

Feeling Helena’s lifeless body, Amador Ibarra is shaken to his core. “Dios mío. Dios mio!” he wails. Lo he hecho! What have I done?” He releases the knife to lift himself up from the floor. Helena’s blood now mingles with the blood seeping from a gash on Amador’s hand. He wipes it on his shirt and pants. Fiery Latino anger has now given way to a trembling fear.

“What do I do? What do I do?” Startled by footsteps behind him, he turns to see the last person he wants to see coming through the door.

“Holy Christ, Pop!” Miguel Ibarra is stunned by the horrific scene created by his father. A kitchen once filled with the sounds of pleasure and the aroma of Helena’s amazing cooking now permeates with smells of blood and death. He grabs a towel and wraps his father’s hand in it. “Get out,” he orders. “Leave now before anyone else comes.”

Amador Ibarra’s formidable persona now seems diminished and small as dread overtakes him. He barely chokes out the question, “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know, Pop, but you’ve got to go. Did anyone know you were coming here?”

“No. I took the old pickup and there was no one here but Helena. But you - why are you here? How - ?”

His son evades the question. “Did you touch anything? Are your fingerprints on anything?”

“I - I can’t remember - no. No! Just the door handle. The screen door. The knife - ”

“Get home. Wash up and burn those clothes. Don’t let anyone see you. And wash the truck inside and out!”

Like a drunken old man, Amador stumbles out the kitchen door and, within seconds, his old truck is kicking up a trail of dirt as it carries him away to safety.

Miguel leans over to see if Helena is breathing. There is no movement, no sound. Her eyes are open in a sightless stare and nausea grips him. He grabs a kitchen towel and wipes the door handle clean. Spying the stained knife by her side, Miguel wraps it in the same towel.

Upstairs, Marcus Jourdain, 16, is totally absorbed with his new model airplane. The sleek aircraft buzzes around loudly in an imaginary flight pattern as Marcus manipulates the remote control with skill. Purposefully, he guides the miniature fighter jet out the window and into the airspace outside his second floor bedroom. It loops and rolls and flies upside down, then rights itself. But without warning, the plane starts to nosedive toward the ground.

“No, no, no! Crap.” Marcus opens his bedroom door and takes the stairs two at a time to the living room. He stops short at the foot of the stairs. Some unfamiliar sounds catch his attention and he turns toward the kitchen.

“Mom?” he calls.

“Mom?” Through the open doorway he sees movement. A man is kneeling next to his mother who is lying on the floor. He doesn’t recognize the intruder, but in that flash of time he notices the scar on the left side of his face, an ugly slash of a scar from cheek to chin. Swiftly, the man disappears from view.

Present Day

“Marc? Go on. Do you remember anything else?”

“You know I don’t. It all stops there. The same dream over and over.”

“And you didn’t hear any sounds before that, any voices?”

“No. I was so damned engrossed in my new little toy,” he castigates himself, “and my bedroom door was closed, so I didn’t hear a thing.”

Dr. McMillan again suggests more hypnotherapy to help Marc remember, but his patient resists.

“I want to remember on my own. I don’t understand why I can’t.”

“Shock can bring on dissociative amnesia as I’ve mentioned before. You can remember everything about that day except the traumatic events surrounding your mother’s death. Hypnosis can work wonders to unleash those memories. As an attorney I’m sure you’ve had experience with clients who can’t remember if they killed someone.”

“Yes, conveniently. Well, I didn’t kill my mother. I want to find that guy, that face with the scar I’ll never forget.”

“What else do you remember about his face besides the scar?”

“I think he was young...older than I was but young, like 18 or so. Dark hair. That’s about it.”

“What about the knife? Was it ever found?”

“No. That’s another mystery. All these years it has never turned up. I don’t know what happened to it.”

“It’s been 15 years since you found your mother dead on the kitchen floor. That’s a profound shock especially for a teenager, Marc. It’s not unusual to keep those memories repressed. Sometimes it takes years. Some people never remember, often because they don’t want to.”

Marc scowls. “That’s just it. I do want to.”

“Changing your name from Marcus Jourdain to Marc Jordan is also symptomatic of repressing memories you’d rather not call up,” Dr. McMillan suggests. “Not wanting to remember how your father died might also be keeping you from remembering how your mother died.”

Marc bristles at the accusation. As an attorney everything he hears is processed as if it were an accusation. He rises from the overstuffed chair and reaches for his suit jacket.

“My father’s death was an accident, so I was told. I didn’t see anything so the only thing I want to forget is the sadness I felt when I heard he was dead.”

“Changing your name is like dismissing the sadness.”

“Maybe it’s simpler than that. Marc Jordan is easier for people to pronounce and spell, that’s all. Well, thanks, Doc. I’ve got a court date downtown this afternoon. I’d better go.”

“Same time next week?”

“Don’t know. Have to check my calendar.”

“Maybe you work too hard, Counselor. Have you thought about taking some time off, go someplace to relax, destress? It could be the key to opening those memory channels.”

“I keep promising myself and something always comes up.”

“Tell me something, Marc. I’ve always wondered why you are a defense attorney and not a prosecutor? I would think prosecuting criminals would be a normal reaction to the anger you feel over your mother’s murder.”

“I pondered that for a long time,” Marc replies, calling up his own personal cliché talking points. “I decided that the criminal justice system is stacked against the poor and downtrodden. They need an advocate.”

“Do you hope to find your mother’s murderer by defending these clients?”

Marc thinks about it, then nods at the possibility. “I keep hoping maybe that guy will walk into my office and confess, not knowing who I am.”

CHAPTERTWO

“You’re a hermit, Marc. When was the last time you had a date?” Ben Parker needles him. Marc’s best friend and colleague is a hound dog, but only to help his friends find romance. He’s married to a terrific woman whom he worships.

Marc grimaces. “A date? What’s that? You know I hate the bar scene. Too much chatter from women who are tipsy on wine, laugh too loud and are hoping to score a husband.”

Ben waves him off. “Forget the bars, and the gym, and all those other hook up places. You need to meet some really classy and gorgeous women. Women who are your intellectual equal. And I know just the place.”

Marc snickers. “Intellectual equal? Sounds really snobbish.”

“No. Just high class, where the woman of your dreams just might have a father in high places. You know, for your career.”

“A country club? Who can afford those fees?”

Ben shakes his head No. “An art gallery. An opening gala. They love this art stuff, and most of the guys that attend are gay. So you’ll have a clear field.”

Marc’s eyebrows knit together. “Really, Ben?”

Ben almost quick-steps to keep up with Marc’s long, smooth strides. “You doubt me? You are a catch, my man. Most guys would kill to have your looks, and women should be lining up to grab you. Besides, the food is fantastic and the wine flows freely, as in no charge.”

“What kind of art? I’m not interested in all that wussy impressionist stuff.” Ben and Marc have been friends since college days, and although it’s a thought that has yet to enter their minds they will eventually wind up on opposite sides of the courtroom.

“Hey, Meredith’s work is not wussy,” Ben defends his modern artist wife. “It’s terrific. Anyway her work is in the side gallery now. The main exhibit is right up your alley. It’s got paintings and photographs of the history of flight - from Da Vinci’s ornithopter to the Wright Flyer to the Concorde, and beyond.”

Marc brushes off this idea. “Sounds like the Air & Space Museum. I’ve been there countless times. Nothing new.”

‘No, no, not that one,” Ben explains, with his usual exuberance. “A private gallery with work you won’t see at Air & Space. Incredible renderings, very imaginative, futuristic and the like. There are also models you can touch.”

“What?”

“And buy.”

Marc gives Ben a good-natured smirk. “Are we talking about planes, Ben?”

“Funny. Come on. What else have you got to do tonight besides TV and a pizza?”

“I’m not really sold on this.”

“Because I haven’t told you the best part.”

“And that is?”

“They are raffling off a weekend personal charter of a Cirrus SF50 Vision Jet that you can fly yourself. It’s a beauty.” Ben has listened to Marc’s fascination with flying since their college days, sometimes with rapt attention and other times with his eyes glazing over at the remarkably boring, to him, details. But this is an opportunity he doesn’t want his best friend to miss.

Marc pauses their power walk, amazed. “What? That plane costs two million. Those raffle tickets must be a fortune.”

“Not really. It’s a promotional deal, only for people who have a pilot’s license. Just plunk your business card in the hopper.” I promise if you go I’ll never bug you again.”

“I’ll hold you to that. Okay, I’m in. Just this once. And I’d better win that raffle.”

“And I want to be your first passenger when you do.” Marc laughs at the thought of Ben pie-eyed, the only way he flies.

Men in cool blue blazers and colorful crew necks, and women in short skirts and espadrilles showing off spectacular legs, meander from paintings to etchings, realistic and surreal, contemporary to abstract, blathering with sometimes faux knowledge while holding their tulip-shaped wine glasses.

Marc is impressed by the stylish gallery design even though he knows absolutely nothing about gallery design. But this one is large and airy, almost like an airport hangar, with miniature prototypes of planes from every century, reimagined with psychedelic designs, hanging enticingly from exposed beams. Life-sized portraits of famous planes and their aviators line the walls and cajole him along on a flying buff’s pictorial dream: Wiley Post who made the first solo flight around the world, then crashed on a failed take-off from Alaska, killing himself and humorist Will Rogers who held a typewriter in his lap as he wrote his column. The Spirit of St. Louis, designed and built in San Diego, with the input of pilot Charles Lindberg, making the first solo flight across the Atlantic.

Two complex men. Both of them recipients of many awards and medals, notable for their scientific and humanitarian endeavors. One a Nazi sympathizer, anti-Semite and bigamist; the other with a record of armed robbery. Still, the men’s character flaws don’t detract from Marc’s admiration for their historic accomplishments, and he realizes we are all - famous, infamous, and everyman - capable of behaviors on either end of the spectrum of human conduct, and everything in between. Best of all they flew, escaped the limitations of the earth to become aviation heroes.

Perusing the sleek personal jets Marc silently chooses, I want one of those...or that one...for his dream is to own his own private plane, one that he can fly into the serenity of a cloudless sky. The exhibit program lists each of the items, its price - to this Marc gives out a low whistle - and a picture of the graphic designer and image consultant, Anabel Starr, an exotic beauty. But it’s the flying machines that stir his desires and provoke his fantasies.

Upon turning to another alcove, he is startled to see the plane that he flew as a kid in his bedroom, a model replica of the A-10 Thunderbolt II. Marc’s blood pressure rises. The memory pierces his consciousness: flying the model out the window of his bedroom, then seeing it crash on the cement below. He runs down the stairs and stops short at the doorway to the kitchen. She is lying on the floor soaked in blood. The scar-faced man is kneeling over her. He is almost a man, maybe 18 or so, handsome, except for the cruel scar cheek to chin. Mom? She doesn’t answer.

Queasiness creeps in and brow sweat begins to form, but a fragrant presence jolts him back to the here and now.

“So, which one do you dream of?” Her voice is musical, and silken smooth. The sensual scent of Jasmine causes him to turn.

“And what makes you think I dream of one?” Marc replies with a smile, as much for the subject of planes as for the beautiful woman with ebony eyes who is standing daringly close.

“Well, men have few dreams. They either desire a fast car, a fast horse, or a fast plane. Plus you’re here looking at them.”

“Actually, I was dragged here by my colleague, Ben. His wife is an artist with an exhibit in the side room.”

“Oh, yes. Meredith Parker. I love her vibrant playful style tempered by sophisticated colors layered within a beautiful palette.”

“I have no idea what you just said. Are you an artist, too?” Marc looks at her slim, well-manicured fingers for any sign of paint stains.

“Well, yes and no. I don’t paint or etch but I do have to use artistic instincts to create image campaigns and design exhibit spaces for my various clients, like this one. What do you think?”

“I am almost speechless with admiration.”

“And what do you do? Mr. - ?”

“It’s Marc. Marc Jordan. I’m a lawyer. Defense, actually.”

“Really. A noble profession. So nice to meet you, Marc Jordan.” She offers her hand and Marc feels the warmth, the welcome, and the seduction in her touch.

Marc succumbs to it completely: the warmth, the welcome and the seduction. No matter how hard he tries he cannot fathom the depths of her passion, or satiate the hunger for excitement that dwells within. The fire inside Anabel driving her ambitions and dictating her temperament completely envelopes him in its unrelenting heat. Polar opposites attract. Anabel is demanding, getting every thing she desires, while Marc, in his buttoned-up introspection, yearns only to remember the one thing he truly wishes to forget.

Marc’s few past relationships were benign, never rising to the heights of emotion that he feels now for Anabel. If it is possible to be “possessed” by pheromones or some invisible force, he is. He has little control over his emotions when she is near, can think of nothing else but her, as though fate has ordained their coupling.

He has a downtown loft apartment, not in one of the million dollar condos near the Convention Center that are completely out of range of his wallet, but in a quaint old building that was once a hotel, exuding old Spanish charm. He loves that it’s in walking distance of every location important in his career, but with the added perk of a bedroom view of the bustling Embarcadero, the ships, the shops, the ferries, the bay. He and Anabel spend as many hours there as their work schedules will allow, exploring each other physically, erotically, fervently.

“Ana, I know every beautiful inch of you, but somehow I don’t know who you are. There are some pieces of the puzzle missing.”

“Mystery in a woman, I’ve heard, is very romantic. And you know how I feel about romance.” She moves her body so close that he feels she could meld into his, like a shapeshifter, making them one.

“But you never talk about family or your childhood,” says Marc, the one most guilty of never speaking of family or a childhood interrupted by two tragic deaths.

All Anabel will reveal is that her father is a single-minded successful business man, and that her mother left when she was a child and she has had to resort to therapy to deal with it. But one thing she does carry of her mother is her artistic talent and instinct, which led her to her current career.

“She taught me art, vision, color, space, feng shui...”

“Feng Shui?”

“Yes. It’s a Chinese system that studies people's relationships to their environment, especially their home or workspace, in order to achieve maximum harmony with the spiritual forces believed to influence all places.”

“You do have a way with words, Anabel,” Marc says, hearing a slight tinge of hyperbole in her description. “With all those mystical references, the name Starr suits you. Come clean. Is it real or made up?”

“Not really made up. My middle name is Estrella, which means Star.”

“Anabel Starr,” Marc says, lifting up her chin with soft fingers, “you light up my life.”

She laughs, but with obvious affection. “Oh, please. If I didn’t love you so much I’d say that’s the corniest line I’ve ever heard.”

CHAPTERTHREE

Marc flies as low as regulations allow over the high rise buildings dotting the San Diego coast. From the generous windows of the luxurious private plane, he can see every landmark of downtown: Petco Park where Padres baseball games are held, the Convention Center that hosts everything from Comic Con to a Pest World convention; the Embarcadero with its view of the legendary Star of India sailing ship, and the USS Midway, now a floating museum. The County Administration Center, a historic Beaux-Arts/Spanish Revival-style building, nicknamed the Jewel on the Bay, and the nearby County Office of Assigned Counsel is where Marc spends his days and many hours into the night, preparing cases for his court-appointed clients.