The Face Read Online Free Page B

here
forever
.”
    Mrs. McBee and Mr. McBee—both in their middle fifties—had been employed by the previous owner of the property and had stayed on at the request of the Face.
    “It’s hard to picture Mrs. McBee skulking about in the walls,” said Ethan. “She’s not exactly a dastardly sort.”
    “But if she
was
dastardly,” Fric said hopefully, “things would be more interesting around here.”
    Unlike his father’s golden locks, which with a shake of the head always fell perfectly into place, Fric’s brown mop achieved perpetual disarray. Here was hair that foiled brushes and broke good combs.
    Fric might grow into his looks and prove equal to his pedigree, but currently he appeared to be an average ten-year-old boy.
    “Why aren’t you in class?” Ethan wondered.
    “You an atheist or something? Don’t you know it’s the week before Christmas? Even home-schooled Hollywood brats get a break.”
    A cadre of tutors visited five days a week. The private school that Fric attended for a while had not proved to be a suitable environment for him.
    With the famous Channing Manheim for a father, with the famous and
notorious
Freddie Nielander for a mother, Fric became an object of envy and ridicule even among the children of other celebrities. Being the skinny son of a buffed star adored for heroic roles also made him a figure of fun to crueler kids. The severity of his asthma further argued for schooling at home, in a controlled environment.
    “Have any idea what you’ll get Christmas morning?” Ethan asked.
    “Yeah. I had to submit my list to Mrs. McBee by December fifth. I told her not to bother wrapping the stuff, but she will. She always does. She says it’s not Christmas morning without
some
mystery.”
    “I’d have to agree with that.”
    The boy shrugged, and slumped in his chair again.
    Although the Face was currently on location for a film, he would return from Florida the day before Christmas.
    “It’ll be good to have your dad home for the holidays. You guys have any special plans once he gets back?”
    The boy shrugged again, attempting to convey lack of knowledge or indifference, but instead—and unwittingly—revealing a misery that made Ethan feel uncharacteristically helpless.
    Fric had inherited luminous green eyes to match his mother’s. In the singular depths of those eyes, enough could be read about the boy’s loneliness to fill a library shelf or two.
    “Well,” Ethan said, “maybe Christmas morning this year you’ll have a couple surprises.”
    Sitting forward in his chair, eager for the sense of mystery that he had so recently dismissed as unimportant, Fric said, “What—you heard something?”
    “If I heard something, which I’m not saying I did or didn’t, I couldn’t tell you what I heard, assuming I heard anything at all, and still keep the surprise a surprise, by which I don’t mean to imply that there is a surprise or that there isn’t one.”
    The boy stared in silence for a moment. “Now you don’t sound cop honest, you sound like the head of a studio.”
    “You know what heads of studios sound like, huh?”
    “They come around here sometimes,” the boy said in a tone of worldly wisdom. “I recognize their rap.”

    Ethan parked across the street from the apartment house in West Hollywood, switched off the windshield wipers, but left the engine running to power the heater. He sat in the Ford Expedition awhile, watching the place, deciding upon the best approach to Rolf Reynerd.
    The Expedition was one of a collection of vehicles available for both job-related and personal use by the eight live-in members of the twenty-five-person estate staff. Among other wheels, a Mercedes ML500 SUV had been in the lower garage, but that might have drawn too much attention during a stakeout if the day required surveillance work.
    The three-story apartment house appeared to be in good but not excellent repair. The cream-colored stucco wasn’t pocked or cracked, but the