drift to nearby Ocean Front Walk. Even at eleven thirty, Venice Beach was alive.
No matter where he looked, the Rhode Islander saw human activity. Six-foot blondes with perfect tans rolled by with delightful regularity. Panhandlers, food vendors, and petitioners competed for choice real estate at wide spots on the walk. One man, wearing a sandwich board, touted a marijuana dispensary. Farther in the distance, couples in tourist attire combed the beach, surfers took on the frigid Pacific, and teens roamed and socialized in small groups.
Even law enforcement stood out. Athletic men and women in dark blue shirts and matching shorts patrolled their exotic beat on well-equipped mountain bikes. They seemed to be having as much fun as the people they protected and served.
Cameron turned away from the beach, settled into his padded iron chair, and directed his attention to a glass door. The door led to the restaurant proper, the lounge, and a four-star resort that would be his home for at least the next six days.
He had booked a room at the Pacific Suites Resort and Spa shortly after accepting Geoffrey Bell's offer of a free trip to California. He was suspicious of Bell's motives for offering the trip but not suspicious enough to refuse it.
Cameron took another sip and surveyed the patio. With the exception of a frat boy and a coed who tried to impress each other with drinking stories, the dining area was empty.
He checked the door again, saw nothing of interest, and then turned to the open portfolio he had placed atop the table. After sorting a stack of letters and slipping a few into a document sleeve, he retrieved his favorite sepia portrait and gave it a scan. No matter how many times he looked at the photograph, he never tired of its pleasing subject.
A moment later, Cameron put the photo in a sleeve, closed the portfolio, and placed it on an adjacent chair. He looked at the door just as a couple stepped onto the patio. He needed only a few seconds to determine that the fiftyish man and the slightly younger woman were the people he was supposed to meet. He stood up when the two approached the table.
"Professor Bell, I presume?" Cameron asked.
The man smiled.
"You presume correctly."
The doctoral student extended a hand.
"Cameron Coelho. It's a pleasure to meet you."
The professor shook the hand.
"The pleasure is mine. I have looked forward to this meeting, Mr. Coelho. So has my wife," Bell said. He looked at the woman beside him and then at Cameron. "This is Mrs. Bell."
As soon as the professor stepped back, the woman, an attractive redhead who bore a strong resemblance to the actress Julianne Moore, stepped forward. She offered Cameron a delicate hand and a smile that could melt half the glaciers in the Himalayas.
"Call me Jeanette," she said. "Mrs. Bell sounds like an old woman."
"All right," Cameron said. He smiled. "Hi, Jeanette."
Cameron shook her hand and then motioned for the Bells to take their seats. He reclaimed his own chair a second later and settled in for what he knew would be an interesting lunch.
"Did you have a nice flight?" Bell asked.
"I did," Cameron said.
"When did you arrive?"
"I got into LAX around five."
"I see," Bell said. "So you haven't had a chance to explore."
"No."
"Well, I hope that changes. There is much to see and do here."
Cameron started to say something but stopped when a waiter came around with menus and glasses of ice water. Like the Bells, he ordered fish tacos, lemon chicken tortilla soup, and a melon margarita. When the server moved on to another table, he restarted a conversation that he knew could go in any of several directions.
"Thank you for bringing me to Los Angeles," Cameron said. "I have to admit I'm still curious as to why you would do that for a complete stranger."
"I brought you here because I wanted to talk to you," Bell said.
"You could have done that on the phone."
"That's true. I could have. I didn't because I wanted to meet you face to face
No matter where he looked, the Rhode Islander saw human activity. Six-foot blondes with perfect tans rolled by with delightful regularity. Panhandlers, food vendors, and petitioners competed for choice real estate at wide spots on the walk. One man, wearing a sandwich board, touted a marijuana dispensary. Farther in the distance, couples in tourist attire combed the beach, surfers took on the frigid Pacific, and teens roamed and socialized in small groups.
Even law enforcement stood out. Athletic men and women in dark blue shirts and matching shorts patrolled their exotic beat on well-equipped mountain bikes. They seemed to be having as much fun as the people they protected and served.
Cameron turned away from the beach, settled into his padded iron chair, and directed his attention to a glass door. The door led to the restaurant proper, the lounge, and a four-star resort that would be his home for at least the next six days.
He had booked a room at the Pacific Suites Resort and Spa shortly after accepting Geoffrey Bell's offer of a free trip to California. He was suspicious of Bell's motives for offering the trip but not suspicious enough to refuse it.
Cameron took another sip and surveyed the patio. With the exception of a frat boy and a coed who tried to impress each other with drinking stories, the dining area was empty.
He checked the door again, saw nothing of interest, and then turned to the open portfolio he had placed atop the table. After sorting a stack of letters and slipping a few into a document sleeve, he retrieved his favorite sepia portrait and gave it a scan. No matter how many times he looked at the photograph, he never tired of its pleasing subject.
A moment later, Cameron put the photo in a sleeve, closed the portfolio, and placed it on an adjacent chair. He looked at the door just as a couple stepped onto the patio. He needed only a few seconds to determine that the fiftyish man and the slightly younger woman were the people he was supposed to meet. He stood up when the two approached the table.
"Professor Bell, I presume?" Cameron asked.
The man smiled.
"You presume correctly."
The doctoral student extended a hand.
"Cameron Coelho. It's a pleasure to meet you."
The professor shook the hand.
"The pleasure is mine. I have looked forward to this meeting, Mr. Coelho. So has my wife," Bell said. He looked at the woman beside him and then at Cameron. "This is Mrs. Bell."
As soon as the professor stepped back, the woman, an attractive redhead who bore a strong resemblance to the actress Julianne Moore, stepped forward. She offered Cameron a delicate hand and a smile that could melt half the glaciers in the Himalayas.
"Call me Jeanette," she said. "Mrs. Bell sounds like an old woman."
"All right," Cameron said. He smiled. "Hi, Jeanette."
Cameron shook her hand and then motioned for the Bells to take their seats. He reclaimed his own chair a second later and settled in for what he knew would be an interesting lunch.
"Did you have a nice flight?" Bell asked.
"I did," Cameron said.
"When did you arrive?"
"I got into LAX around five."
"I see," Bell said. "So you haven't had a chance to explore."
"No."
"Well, I hope that changes. There is much to see and do here."
Cameron started to say something but stopped when a waiter came around with menus and glasses of ice water. Like the Bells, he ordered fish tacos, lemon chicken tortilla soup, and a melon margarita. When the server moved on to another table, he restarted a conversation that he knew could go in any of several directions.
"Thank you for bringing me to Los Angeles," Cameron said. "I have to admit I'm still curious as to why you would do that for a complete stranger."
"I brought you here because I wanted to talk to you," Bell said.
"You could have done that on the phone."
"That's true. I could have. I didn't because I wanted to meet you face to face
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