CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Sinclair & Ives was the premier graphic design firm in Southern California. Their clients included Nike, Calvin Klein, Disney, Pepsi. If a company had a commercial written up in Artforum, a logo recognized worldwide, a font that inspired hosts of knockoffs, chances were good that Sinclair & Ives had a hand in it—and that the original creative spark came from Charles Sinclair, the agency’s superstar art director.
The firm’s offices occupied a full floor in a chic office building downtown, decorated with color-blocked walls and sleek modern furniture. On Monday morning Veronica sat on a backless red sofa, clutching a portfolio and jiggling one leg up and down in a good imitation of nerves. She wore combat boots and a slouchy boy’s blazer; her hair was looped through a rubber band into a sloppy bun. A pair of nonprescription glasses with heavy black plastic frames finished the look: casual, Bohemian, this side of edgy. A sandwich board over her shoulders, block-lettered ART STUDENT, couldn’t have been more overt. Which was the idea, because Veronica had a job interview with Charles Sinclair. And she needed to pass as a viable candidate for the few short minutes it’d take to accomplish two specific tasks: determine whether he knew Grace, and find an object with his DNA on it.
Veronica hadn’t wanted to involve Mac further, but a quick background check revealed that Sinclair had graduated from the California College of the Arts. It also provided his private line. Veronica, doing her best college counselor impression, placed a quick call that morning, informing him that she had a talented photography grad student looking for work, and would he mind meeting with her? His voice on the phone had been warm. Sure—he had twenty minutes just before lunch.
So now Veronica sat in the waiting room, holding a portfolio of her own hastily curated photos. The receptionist—a young man with carrot-red hair gelled in a high arc above his forehead—kept glancing at her with surly amusement over the top of his monitor.
“Gretchen Spengler?”
Veronica gave a little start. She’d expected the receptionist to make her wait as long as possible before showing her back to Sinclair’s office, but here was the designer himself, watching her from the doorway with an indulgent smile.
Charles Sinclair was tall and lean, with dark hair receding from a craggily handsome face. He wore a suit jacket and a button-down shirt, no tie, and he leaned against the doorway with confident ease. The very picture of middle-aged richfuck entitlement, Veronica thought. He doesn’t seem like a guy who’d hesitate to take what he wanted. But—rapey or merely insufferable?
“Mr. Sinclair!” She shot to her feet, walking toward him with her hand outstretched. “Thanks so much for meeting with me. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”
“It’s always great to meet a fellow CCA alum.” They shook hands.
She followed him through a large, open workspace. One full wall was made of blackboard material and covered with doodles. Four people were crouched over drafting tables or computer stations, surrounded by empty coffee cups or soda cans. It looked as if everyone else was gone for lunch.
Sinclair’s office was large, but cluttered. A corkboard lined three-quarters of the wall, covered with clippings of everything from athletes in motion to woolly-faced sloths clinging to branches in the jungle. Two twenty-seven-inch monitors sat side by side over his computer, and an angled drafting table sat next to the window. A coiled yoga mat was propped against the wall by the door, a grubby-looking hand towel jutting from the center.
Her eyes darted around the room, taking in the details. If he had as many empty cans at his station as everyone else in the office did, then this would be easy. But there was nothing.
Okay, so I’ll just have to get creative.
Charles pulled an Aeron chair out from under his computer desk and motioned for Veronica to take a seat. He settled into a molded, green plastic chair just a few feet away from her. It felt strange, not having a desk between them—a bit more exposed than she’d have liked.
“Thanks so much for making the time to see me, Mr. Sinclair. I’m such a fan of your work.” Veronica pushed her glasses up her nose. “The spread you did for Rolex a few years ago is, like, half the reason I went to design school.”
His smile widened a little. “That’s one of my favorite campaigns. And not just because I got to meet Marion Cotillard.” He crossed his legs, resting his fingers on his knee and regarding her with interest. Veronica realized with a shiver that his eyes were the same light blue as Mac’s. “So you’re a photographer?”
She nodded, then unzipped the portfolio in her lap and started sifting through the pictures. “I interned with TBWA in Los Angeles last summer and did a lot of product test shots for them. But my thesis work was all on portrait.” She handed a book of photos to him and he started to leaf through.
Veronica had spent hours going through her own prints the day before. She’d been taking pictures since she was a kid, and her best work was pretty good—certainly passable as a talented student’s portfolio. She’d included an array of images—shots of historic buildings and ocean vistas, pictures of birds and flowers, a few photos of cheese platters and cupcakes—but more than anything else, she included portraits. Most were of friends back in New York, from her days at Columbia; she didn’t want to run the risk of showing him anyone he might recognize.
With one important exception.
She watched his face closely as he looked through the prints. He lingered on a few—one she’d taken at Coney Island’s Mermaid Parade two years ago, showing three young women in shell bikinis and green wigs; another of a broken window in an abandoned elementary school. Then he turned another page, and froze.
Grace Manning’s posed portrait didn’t entirely fit in with the rest of the images. Veronica’s pictures were generally more photojournalistic in tone. Grace’s professional headshot was meant to show her at her most generic, a blank slate for directors’ imaginations. Her expression was serious—lips closed, eyes ingénue-wide, hair loose around her face. The picture was from before the attack, and Veronica thought she could detect a subtle difference in the girl’s features. Or maybe it was just her expression that had altered—some lightness in her eyes, some of the casual ease in her muscles, was gone.
Charles’s eyes locked onto the portrait, his mouth opening and closing a few times in a frantic bid for composure. First he went pale—then he flushed, his cheeks and neck darkening to red. Veronica hid a smile.
Gotcha.
Veronica leaned over as if checking to see what he was looking at. “Oh, you like that one? God, I lucked out with her. She’s an actress who hired me to do her headshot. Kind of an innocent, girl-next-door vibe, right? But vulnerable too—kind of breakable.”
She saw his fingers tremble, then curl around the edge of the book. But before he could say anything, another voice broke in. A petulant, horribly familiar voice. A voice that still affected Veronica like a battery acid IV.
“Daddy, you’ve got to fire that guy at the front desk. He always acts like I’m some kind of nuisance.”
Madison Sinclair stood in the doorway, wearing a canary-yellow sheath dress and a pale pink cardigan. Her brows were arched in characteristic disdain. She stopped in her tracks when she saw Veronica.
Veronica was momentarily flummoxed, unable to think or process. Madison Sinclair had insulted, bullied, and belittled her every day in high school—as well as at their ten-year reunion a few months earlier. The only upside had been that Veronica had gotten to do what she’d dreamed of for years: punch Madison square in the face.
“What are you doing here?” Madison said, her voice dripping with loathing.
Charles looked up from the prints spread across his lap. He fumbled the book shut and handed it back to Veronica. “Oh, do you know each other?”
“Oh my gosh, you’re Charles’s daughter?” Veronica plastered a winning smile onto her lips, standing up from her chair. “I knew your last name was Sinclair but I don’t think I ever put those two things together. It’s so nice to see you again.”
Madison blinked. This was clearly not what she’d expected.
Lucky for Veronica, Charles seemed almost as eager to cut the interview short as she now was. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Spengler—I forgot that I had a lunch date with my daughter. We’ll have to cut this short. But your photography is…really interesting, and if you’ll leave me a copy of your CV…”
“Spengler?” spat Madison. “What the—”
“Thank you so much for making the time to meet me, Mr. Sinclair.” Veronica stuck out her hand, and after hesitating a moment, he shook it. “It’s been a real honor.” She turned toward the door, beaming at Madison. “Have a great lunch, Madison.”
In the three seconds it took her to get to the door, Veronica’s eyes flickered frantically back and forth, combing the room. She’d gotten the reaction she’d wanted from the picture—but she hadn’t gotten what she really needed. No soda cans, no half-eaten food, no strands of hair just sitting conveniently out for her to grab. Once she left, there was no way she could come back. Madison would tell him that she was a private eye, and it would be over.
And then she saw it. The crumpled white hand towel on the yoga mat, propped by the door. She had a sudden image of Charles Sinclair in a humid, sweltering yoga studio, covered with sweat. Coming out of Warrior pose to mop his face. Then rolling it up in the mat, keeping it there for next time.
As she sailed past Madison, she plucked it lightly from where it stuck out. Veronica hurried through the workroom, Madison’s voice ringing behind her.
“Why did you call her Spengler? Her name is Veronica Mars, Daddy, and she’s total trash.”
She didn’t stop to hear his response. Instead, she sped up, breezing past the receptionist and wondering if she had proof of the attacker’s identity clutched in her hand.