The Wake-Up Read Online Free PDF Page A

though. Not that he could have more than a couple of sips, what with all the antibiotics he was taking.
    Thorpe’s cover story was that his gunshot wound was the result of a botched carjacking outside San Francisco. Claire asked to see his scar, then actually teared up when he showed her. The two of them brought him copies of
Maxim, Stu f,
and
FHM,
and she and Pam would argue with each other over the women in the magazines, disagreeing over which starlet had had surgery, which one was showing incipient droop-age, and which sexual advice to the frat boys was worse than useless.
    Claire whiled away his recovery by giving him psychological tests, Rorschach and Iowa Integrated and Dynamic Assessment. The tests were supposed to be unbeatable, but Thorpe fudged his answers so that the results were contradictory. She kept rechecking her findings, cursing softly, and giving him more tests. Claire and Pam talked too much and teased him without mercy, but on the days when they failed to come by, he kept listening for their footsteps, hoping they would show.
    Now Thorpe walked them to the door, then sat back at the computer. He logged off the insurance database and on to the California Division of Corporations. The president and sole proprietor of Meachum Fine Arts was Douglas Meachum, Laguna Beach.
    Thorpe tried the L.A. Times site, but the paper’s archives drew a blank on Meachum Fine Arts or Douglas Meachum. The
Orange County
Register
had done a bare-bones business story three years ago, when the company opened, “offering artwork tailored to the client’s own unique aesthetic profile.” Right. The
Register
story contained a couple of quotes from Douglas Meachum on the “esoteric and proprietary” methods used to align the art with the client, but there was no photo of him. The
Gold Coast Pilot,
however . . . bingo. Thorpe should have started there. The
Pilot
was a local weekly targeted at the yacht and tennis club set, the oceanfront nouveau riche crowd. Two years ago, they had done a full-page color feature on Meachum Fine Arts. He double-clicked on the accompanying photo, got a good look at Douglas Meachum posed in front of an ugly-ass Dalí watercolor, a look of blithe condescension on his lean, handsome face. Meachum was the hard charger.
    He went back to the insurance Web site. Douglas Meachum was forty-five, lived in Laguna Beach, had a new Jaguar and three-year-old Ford Explorer on his policy. Pristine driving record. No tickets, no accidents. He did, however, have a wife. Thorpe wasn’t surprised that Meachum was a player—it went with the arrogance and sense of entitlement that Thorpe had seen in the man’s walk, the tilt of his head.
    A woman answered the phone at Meachum’s gallery, identified herself as Nell Cooper, chief sales consultant. She said Mr. Meachum was on a business trip but would be back tomorrow, and perhaps there was something
she
could help him with? Thorpe said no, then asked if Halley Anderson was working today. Nell Cooper said there was no one with that name employed there. Thorpe thanked her and hung up. Then he called Halley Anderson. She picked up on the fourth ring.
    “Hello.”
    “Hi, Halley. Is Doug there?”
    Hesitation on the other end, one hand muffling the receiver as she said something.
    “Who is this?” demanded Meachum, on the line now.
    “I saw you at LAX this morning. You were in such a rush, you knocked a kid down. You bloodied his nose and didn’t even stop to say you were sorry. Bad manners, Doug.”
    “How did you get this number?”
    “I wanted to give you a chance to apologize to the boy.”
    “Are you an attorney?” asked Meachum. “Some ambulance chaser who thinks I’m going to admit to hitting this little wetback?”
    “I didn’t say he was Latino, but don’t worry, I’m not a lawyer. The boy’s name is Paulo. You just have to tell Paulo you’re sorry, and that will be the end of it.”
    Silence on the phone.
    “What’s there to think about, Doug?