Emerald Buddha

Chapter 3

Drake sat atop his longboard in the gentle swell off Malibu, basking in the warm morning sun as he waited for the next set of promising waves to push their way toward shore. He brushed a lock of unruly hair from his brow and glanced to his left, where three other locals bobbed, their spring wetsuits lending them the appearance of overfed seals. Off in the distance several fishing boats worked the outer rim of the kelp line, and hopeful seagulls wheeled overhead in anticipation of lost bait or human charity.

Drake had been living on the beach for two and a half months, ever since taking the suggestion to look at the area; he’d fallen instantly in love from his first encounter with Malibu. Unlike Northern California, where it rained a substantial chunk of the year, the weather in Southern California since he’d moved had been cool mornings with a marine layer that burned off by nine, followed by idyllic days of warmth and limitless sunshine.

He’d leased a two-bedroom beach home on the sand, largely because it was small and unassuming amidst neighboring houses that looked to him like monuments to garish opulence. That wasn’t his style, and in spite of the massive wealth he’d come into overnight, he still felt out of place among the Hollywood directors and famous actors who called the stretch of beach home.

His days consisted of surfing in the morning for two to three hours, from dawn until he’d worn himself out, followed by a breakfast of four scrambled eggs and a pitcher of fresh-squeezed orange juice he got every evening at the local market, and then a slow three-mile run along the waterline before lunch. Afternoons were spent in front of the computer, answering emails and researching promising accounts of lost civilizations or tenuous rumors of hidden treasure.

Drake had developed a taste for the game on his trek through the Amazon, and now that he was a celebrity adventure hunter, he figured he might as well do something constructive with his life — and with the money. He’d always loathed the TV reality stars whose only talent seemed to be whining over broken nails or the difficulty of dealing with the paparazzi, and he had resolved not to add himself to the clutter of human flotsam. He would work at carrying on his father’s legacy, and earn the respect that he still felt he’d gotten purely by accident.

His current project was another Inca site in Peru, hinted at on the document he’d discovered in Paititi, and he was actively debating mounting an expedition to look for it. Part of the reason for his sense of urgency was boredom and a sense of days rushing by wasted, but another was to see Allie again. Their rendezvous in Texas hadn’t gone as he’d hoped; she’d been visibly frazzled by dealing with her father’s estate and the funeral arrangements. It hadn’t helped that within days of returning to the world, several suits had been filed by strangers claiming to have had handshake deals with Jack, and therefore felt entitled to a portion of his estate, which turned out to be considerable — not by Drake’s new standards, but the property the old man had quietly accumulated around Texas and California was worth almost ten million dollars, which along with the breathless media accounts of Allie’s newfound super wealth was enough to bring out the parasites.

She’d apologized and begged off spending time with him until she could get situated, but what he’d hoped would be a few weeks had stretched into months, with all too infrequent phone calls to maintain their connection. His last trip to Texas had been met with a distant attitude, and he hadn’t known what to think about her preoccupation. She insisted that this was just a road bump, but he wasn’t so sure. He’d toyed with the idea of hopping on a plane and sitting on her doorstep until they could have time together, but had discarded the idea after talking it over with Betty, who had transitioned from the office manager at the now-defunct bail bond outfit where he’d been working before striking it rich, and was now working as his assistant from her home in the Bay Area.

“Give her some space, Drake. She’s been through a lot,” Betty had said.

“I know. I was there, remember?”

“But she lost her father. That’s hard at any time, but it affects some more than others.”

“The legal pressures and trying to clear up all the land issues can’t be easy,” Drake conceded.

“Look, Drake, I know that it seems super urgent, but in the scheme of things, what’s a few weeks one way or another? If the lady says she needs time, give her what she asks for, or she’ll resent you for it. That’s my advice.”

“You’re right. But I want to do something.”

“Then send her a bouquet of roses or buy her an island. But don’t smother her.”

That had been a month ago, and since then they’d spoken three times. Which wasn’t at all what he’d had in mind.

He was pulled out of his pity party by a nearby voice. “Looks like a good set,” his new friend Seth called out from twenty yards away.

“Cowabunga,” Drake agreed, nodding and squinting against the sun’s glare on the water.

The waves neared, and Seth caught the first. Drake waited for the second and was rewarded seconds later by a larger twin. He paddled furiously, caught the curl just right, and pushed himself to his feet. The ride lasted only ten seconds at most, but Drake felt the same sense of exhilaration as he had in the old days up north, when he’d had to don a full neoprene body suit with a hood to catch waves off of Santa Cruz using a short board. The warmer water here helped him feel more relaxed, as did the easy camaraderie of his companions, which was unlike the standoffish competitive attitude he’d experienced on surfing forays further south in Huntington and Newport Beach.

When the wave had exhausted itself, he dropped into the water beside his board, glanced at his waterproof watch, and waved to the others.

“I’m pooped. You guys hang loose,” he called. Their rides also over, they returned the wave, and Drake made his way against the pull of the surf to the golden stretch of sand. He unzipped his Rip Curl spring suit and shrugged the top loose, and then retrieved his board before padding toward his bungalow. Even after only a few months he’d already decided he liked the area enough to want to buy property, but he couldn’t get past the embarrassment of being a snobby pretender whenever he looked at the listings online. And the numbers seemed astronomical to him for a collection of rooms. Even though he was now wealthy, it seemed insane to pay seven to ten million for fifty feet of beachfront with a neighbor jammed up against each side.

As he approached his wood-shingled house, its small deck a postage stamp compared to the adjacent homes, he saw a tumble of blonde hair poke over the blue-tinted glass railing of the home to his right, followed by a waving hand connected to a stunningly beautiful young woman — Kyra, the daughter of a movie mogul, staying at her father’s place while she tried to make a name for herself in the business. Twenty years old and a product of genetic perfection, she would have stopped traffic anywhere in the world. He noted that her bikini was little more than string, and that she’d been sunbathing topless as she struggled to tie her top, failing to protect her modesty in the process — whether by accident or design, he couldn’t be sure.

“Hey, Drake. Looking good, surfer dude,” she called out, her voice musical on the light breeze.

“Thanks, Kyra. How’s it going?”

“My agent got me some more auditions. I really feel like this is my year, you know?”

Drake ran his hand through his hair and tried not to gape at her flawless, tanned skin and blazing sky blue eyes. “Yeah, it could be. I hope so. It’s been a pretty good one for me so far.”

She eyed him like a cat eyeing a baby chick, her gaze lingering on his chest and abs. “Understatement of the year.”

“I’m sure you’ll get something that makes you famous, Kyra. It’s only a matter of time.” Which it was. She could read lines with all the conviction of a rock with a painted face, but with her dad’s connections, she’d eventually be a star, he was sure.

“Easy for you to say. You already won that lottery. You should write a book or something. Ooh, or maybe a reality show! Right here, on the beach!”

“I’m afraid my life isn’t all that exciting, Kyra.”

“Oh, don’t worry. It’s all BS. They just make stuff up and you play along. Hey — I could be in it! Playing the struggling actress! It would be awesome. Let me make a couple of calls…”

“Not on my account. I moved here to get away from all that. But thanks anyway.”

She gave him an appraising look. “See? That’s why you’re one in a million. Anyone else would be totally sucking up to have their own show. You? You couldn’t care less.”

“I probably just need more medication,” Drake joked, offering her a grin. She feigned a pout and then beamed at him.

“You should come over later and have a margarita or something,” she said, her voice all innocence but her expression making clear that she had definite ideas about what the something might entail.

“Cool. Thanks. I might take you up on that,” Drake said, and then his attention was drawn to his house, which he habitually left unlocked — he had nothing worth stealing, and half his neighbors did the same, he knew — just another reminder of how different Malibu was from the real world over the hill. He spotted two men in suits standing inside his open glass terrace doors, watching him, hands folded, stone-faced. “What the hell—”

The tallest of the pair stepped forward. “Mr. Ramsey, sorry for the intrusion, but we knocked and it was open. Probably not a good idea to leave it unlocked,” he said, his voice as welcoming as fingers on a blackboard. “Please, come in. We need a moment of your time.”

“And you are…?”

“Someone you’d do well to speak with,” the second man said, glancing over at Kyra before lowering his voice. “We’re from Washington.”

“Drake? Is everything okay?” Kyra asked, turning toward his house as he mounted the stairs to the deck.

Drake regarded the pair, who stepped further into the gloomy interior so they couldn’t be seen by her, and nodded. “Yeah. But if I’m not back in ten minutes, call the cops.”