by Rhys Ford
“Didn’t I tell you to stay put at your grandfather’s?” she ground out, falling into step behind him. “Good thing I called before I headed up to the hills, or I wouldn’t have found out from the housekeeper you’d come here.”
“Forget the coffee. You need a drink,” Rook muttered, juggling his keys until he found the one he needed. “Did you come bug me for something in particular, or you just couldn’t find a dog to kick? And what the hell’s wrong with calling me? Not like I don’t answer the phone.”
“Because sometimes, Stevens, I get better answers out of you when I take you by surprise.” She snagged his arm, tugging him away from the door. Her hold was casual but firm, as unexpected as her presence. She caught his glance down and let him go, shoving her hands into her pockets. “Have you heard from Montoya?”
“Just a text telling me he’s going to be late and to eat something. Why?” A frisson of worry cut through him, bringing Rook to full alert. He fisted his fingers in the overly large gray shirt he’d stolen from Dante, wondering impossible things in between staggered breaths. “What’s—”
“Nothing’s wrong. Montoya’s fine. Dante’s fine.” Her reassurance was soft under the steel of her voice. “They… found Vicks. Montoya and Camden. I just came from there.”
She sketched in as little as possible, but Rook didn’t need much. He had enough of an imagination to fill in the blanks, possibly painting the details a bit more lurid than necessary, but there they were, trickling through the lines O’Byrne laid down for him.
“So the housekeeper… they killed her too? Why?” Rook choked on the lump in his throat. “What the fucking hell is going on?”
“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out,” O’Byrne promised. “So I’m going to ask you, Stevens, can you think of anything about that day that you haven’t shared? Anything at all?”
“Seriously, I don’t know jack shit. I got into the house, went upstairs, and there was Harold. I didn’t even get far into the room when that guy came at me.” It’d been a difficult thing to punch through, especially since he’d been flying high on adrenaline not more than a minute before. “He wasn’t a good fighter, but it was tight, hard to turn around, and he flailed at me. The ground was wet, I remember that, but that turned out to be dog piss. Sadonna’s dog peed on the marble floor, and it was slippery. I thought maybe it was… blood, but Harold was dead way before I came into that room.
“Did you pick up the dog?”
“No, I didn’t see him until later. Shit, if only the dog could talk.” He made a face. “It’s Archie’s now. I thought he belonged to Sadonna, but he was Harold’s. My aunt doesn’t want him. She doesn’t like dogs, so Archie took him.”
“You say you thought Harold was dead already,” O’Byrne pressed on. “Why?”
“He wasn’t breathing. I remember seeing the bird. The falcon. It was on Harold’s stomach. Then it fell over, slid off really. I was looking right at him, and he was just still.” He’d gone over everything he could, trying to dissect the flashes of memory floating through the shock of seeing his cousin spread out over the floor. “I got the impression the guy knew where he was. I mean, I knew the layout pretty much, but after he hit me and I went down, there wasn’t any hesitation. He was gone before the dog… wait, the dog didn’t bark. It knew me. I’d played with it at Archie’s more than a few times, but it didn’t bark when I came up the stairs.”
“So it definitely knew the person in the ski mask,” O’Byrne mused. “I’m not sure if your attacker killed Harold, but I’m going to guess he knows more than we do. He was there for something. Do you think he was after the falcon too?”
“Can’t see anyone but a hard-core movie buff wanting it. It’s not like… I mean it’s cool, but the average guy off the street would probably want cash or jewelry out of the safe. If it was from the Bogey film, you’d be looking at a couple of million, but it’s a replica from a parody. It’s worth a bit, but not millions, and besides, the guy left it behind.”
“True. And Ms. Swann said nothing was missing from the safe.” She eyed him. “Did you get as far as the safe?”
“I wasn’t going for the safe,” he replied. There’d been a tickle of wonder at breaking through the mini-vault Harold had on the property, but he’d been good, or as good as he was going to get, leaving it untouched. “I was there for the bird, O’Byrne. Nothing else.”
“Were you tempted?” The detective pushed, a gleam in her hooded eyes. “One last hurrah?”
“I had my last hurrah years ago. And no, no temptation. Dante’s too important to me. I’m not going to fuck that up just because my ego’s in a twist,” Rook explained. “I like him coming home to me. There’s something about—”
The sound of the bullet hitting O’Byrne’s shoulder was a thick, sickening thud, and the wound’s burst of blood surprised him, a violent rosette of sound and metallic red suddenly appearing above her breast. Another followed, plowing through her arm as the first spun her around, splattering Rook’s face with her hot blood. The parking lot asphalt popped and sizzled, shots hitting the tarry surface, and Rook nearly turned around, foolishly wondering where the assault was coming from in the split-second before his brain registered O’Byrne was falling.
She was fumbling for her gun, fingers arched and twitching when Rook grabbed at her waist, her weight nearly taking him down to his knees when she tipped over. The shots kept coming, puncturing the sedan’s back end, and a tire took a hit, blowing out in a rushing boom loud enough to rattle Rook’s eardrums. His chest was wet, his shirt wicking away O’Byrne’s blood, and he dragged at her, cursing when she pushed at him.
Everything smelled and tasted of blood and fear. Her blood. His terror. They were exposed, out in the open, and he couldn’t tell where the shots were coming from. O’Byrne fought him every step of the way, her boots digging into the parking lot’s squiggly black patchwork.
“Fucking stop.” He didn’t know who he was pleading with, the wild-eyed detective or the shooter, but neither one appeared to be listening.
“I’m fine.” She was slurring, her eyes unfocused and drifting. “Get inside. Call 911.”
A brick chip flew past his nose, scoring his cheek, and Rook tugged O’Byrne along, keeping his head down until he could get closer to the receiving door. A stab at the lock’s three-digit combination and the door rolled up slowly, but he was under the metal slats as soon as he could. On her back, propped up against the building, O’Byrne had her weapon out, one hand limp at her side, but she held the gun steady, aiming it out of the cavernous opening.
“Keep going, Stevens. I’ll cover you,” she croaked, struggling to get to her feet, but Rook grabbed at her again, holding her in close. Her eyes rolled back, and she spat while he half dragged her behind a column. Another shot pinged at the entrance, but either the angle was wrong or the shooter was losing his nerve because it went wide, missing O’Byrne’s foot by a good seven feet. “Get down!”
Pressing down on O’Byrne’s shoulder, Rook cradled the woman as best he could, trying to keep their arms from tangling as she lifted her weapon up again. Flat on his ass and trapped by the detective’s weight, he screamed in frustration when he couldn’t reach the phone he’d slid into his back pocket. Twisting to get it, he winced when she groaned. Then the detective went limp, her arm dropping to the ground.
An engine roar broke through the Hollywood afternoon, and something heavy hit the sedan, sending it flying across the receiving bay opening. Metal and glass crunched into the building’s fittings, jammed in tight, and Rook caught a glimpse of a gray quarter panel before the vehicle reversed out of sight and was gone.
Heart pounding, he finally got his phone loose, his fingers shaking when he tried to dial in to emergency services. O’Byrne’s labored breathed stuttered, then steadied out when Rook pressed into the heavier wound again. A distant-sounding voice echoed in his ear, asking him for his emergency, and he couldn’t find the words in his brain, hung up on the blood and p
ain reverberating through him.
“Rook!” Manny’s voice seemed even farther away and for some reason, gray. Manny was never gray, but there he was, crouched over Rook and going grayer with every passing second. “Oh God, Rook. Let me—”
The pain hit him all at once, stealing his breath and filling his lungs with glass, and he tried to shift O’Byrne off of him, but his arms weren’t responding, flopping about and too weak to get her clear. His shirt—Dante’s shirt—was soaked through, sticking to his chest and ribs, and his side ached where the fabric clung, twisting around his hip and lower back. His stomach was wet, too wet to be just O’Byrne’s blood, and when he tried to move, a shock wave of agony echoed along his spine and down his legs.
“Don’t move, baby,” Manny pleaded, the edges of his round, handsome face blurring where the light leaked in around him. “Just… stay with me, okay? Please. You’ve been shot, baby. Oh God, you’ve been shot.”
Fourteen
“YOU’RE GOING to be the death of me, cuervo,” Dante whispered, kissing Rook on the forehead. “I always figured it’d be Manny, but you… you’re a solid contender.”
“Hey, I didn’t ask to be shot.” It was a weak protest. He’d pretty much been asking for a bullet since the moment he’d laid hands on O’Byrne to pull her to safety, but Rook wasn’t going to bring that point up. Not when he was propped up in Archie’s study, surrounded by cops, and floating on a painkiller strong enough to make his face numb. “It’s just a graze. Sure, kind of hurts, but not like it took a lot of meat with it. Docs were fine with letting me go. You guys should be thankful I was getting out of the way. If I hadn’t moved, I’d have a bed down the hall from O’Byrne.”
“Or Vicks,” Dante’s lanky partner rumbled at him, moving through the space, surprisingly nimble despite his size. “Sit down, Montoya. You’re hovering.”
“Rook was shot,” Dante reminded Camden, but he settled onto the ottoman next to the club chair Rook collapsed into. “He should be in bed. Doc said rest and more rest. Not sitting around waiting for an interrogation.”
It was late, nearly a quarter past ten, and as tired as Rook was, it felt damned good to sit in something more comfortable than a plastic hospital chair. It felt even better to have Dante’s fingers wrapped around his. He’d caught the stumble of words from his lover. Their relationship was complicated, made more so by the apparent death wish Rook somehow picked up over the past week and a half.
“Here is some coffee and something to eat. If you all are going to be here, at least get something into you.” Rosa pushed a tea cart into the room, cups and plates rattling when she hit the edge of one of the carpets. The fall of bells tugged at her attention, and the Latina frowned, shooting Dante a fierce look. “Were you expecting anyone else?”
“Detective taking over for Vicks is coming. Book called from the hospital. Said he’d send her around.” Hank’s enormous hand swallowed up the mug Rosa handed him, his fingers sliding under the handle. Camden’s phone buzzed, and he reached into his jacket. “Hey, don’t glare at me. Rook said he was up to it. I can grab the door—”
“We have people for that,” Archie declared, hobbling into the room, circling Hank reading his phone screen. “And security. Someone will bring your cop in. Don’t you worry about it. Rosa, make mine sweet and tan. I’m going to need the calories if I’m going to survive another night with this boy.”
There was a bit of a fuss as his grandfather took up the chair next to him, Dante shuffling to the side to make room for Archie, but Rook caught the look they exchanged, one weighted with worry and a little bit of affection. Manny was somewhere in the house, hopefully asleep if Rook had his wish. The older Latino hung by Rook’s side through the ambulance ride and then when the doctors began to stitch him up, only moving when Dante came through the emergency room’s doors, Camden shouting for information above the chatter of the personnel telling them they couldn’t be there.
“O’Byrne’s out of surgery and in Recovery.” Camden put his phone away. “Looks like she’s good. Captain says her brother’s there, scaring the shit out of the nurses. So I guess grumpy runs in the O’Byrne DNA.”
“His sister’s just been shot. He has a good reason to be grumpy.” Dante stood, trailing his fingers along Rook’s shoulder. “Rosa, you don’t have to wait on us. We can pour our own coffee.”
“Speak for your damned self, boy. I pay Rosa a lot of money to know how I like my coffee.” Archie’s hands shook when he reached for the half-full cup held out to him, and he grumbled when Rosa set it on the table next to him. The dog poked his head out from under Archie’s chair, then scrambled out to beg at Rosa. “Damn it, woman. I can drink a full cup—”
“You’re tired and should be in bed, old man. Be glad she even gave you some coffee and didn’t just knock you on the head so Dante could toss you into your room.” Rook sliced into the conversation. “And say thank you once in a while. Won’t kill you.”
His grandfather’s eyes were pulling down at the edges, but it would be a long battle if anyone’d tried to get him to bed. Refusing to budge as long as the cops were in his house, the Martin patriarch was in for the long haul, firmly entrenched in his chair despite Rosa cajoling him to rest.
“I say thank you all the time,” Archie grumbled back, but he muttered a bit of Spanish under his breath when Rosa placed a small plate of cookies by his elbow. “She knows I’d be lost without her.”
“See? You didn’t die,” Rook shot back. “I’m only going to stay up long enough to talk to this new guy, and then I’m off to bed.”
“No coffee for you,” Dante grumbled at him, handing him a cup of something brown and fragrant. “Herbal tea. With sugar. You’re on enough stimulants.”
“I can’t feel my toes,” he muttered back, sniffing the brew. It was sweet and fruity, possibly mango or orange, neither of which displeased him. Still, the lure of the bean was strong, and he jabbed Dante’s side with his finger. “I need the coffee.”
“What you need is for that detective to get in here and we can all go to bed,” Archie groused. “Rosa! Go see what’s taking them so long to get that man in the house.”
The sound of heels on marble brought them all up short, and Camden whistled low under his breath when one of the security guards led a sharp-featured blonde woman to the study’s doorway. She was all angles and hipbones, wearing red heels, a pair of jeans, and a button-up white shirt topped with a navy blazer nearly the same color as her eyes. A gold badge hung from her belt loop, its metal winking under the light coming from the study’s crystal chandeliers, and the glint of a holster flashed them before she tugged her blazer back down, covering her weapon. She crossed the room with a distinct purpose, holding her hand out to Dante.
“Detective Montoya? Detective Anna Cranston, West LA. It’s good to meet you.” Her fingers were swallowed momentarily in Dante’s. She continued about the room, shaking Camden’s hand as she took introductions. Cranston’s eyes caught everything, skimming over Archie, then settling on Rook’s face, flitting back to the old man for a brief second, as if verifying the genetic similarities she found between them. “I’ve heard good things about you guys. Looking forward to your help on this.”
“That coming from you or something West LA told you to say?” Camden took over for Rosa and poured out another cup of coffee. “Milk? Sugar? Since I’m here.”
“Black. I grew up on cop house coffee. If it isn’t bitter, I wouldn’t know how to swallow,” she said with a laugh. “Heard about O’Byrne. I was hoping I could work with her too, but it’s good to know she’s going to be okay. I figured I’d make this as short as possible, and we can hook back up tomorrow once you’ve all caught some sleep. I appreciate you making the time to meet up. I’m playing catch up here. After what happened this afternoon, I didn’t want to wait until morning if I could get the jump on things.”
“How long have you been a cop?” Archie tilted his head back, his beak of a nose casting a shadow over his juttin
g chin. “You don’t even look old enough to drink a beer. Don’t hush me, Rosa. I’d like to know who’s on this case and what they’re doing to protect my grandson.”
“You’re being a pain in the ass, that’s what you are,” Rosa sniped back, but affection softened her words. “I’m taking Queequeg outside. And I’m telling you, he better learn where he can go to the bathroom soon or I’m going to put him in diapers.”
“No one’s wearing a diaper in this house. He just needs some discipline.” Archie scruffed under the dog’s chin before Rosa got out of reach. “Now, detective, answer the question.”
Rook had to hand it to Cranston, because she was a master at handling crotchety old men like his grandfather. She countered his quizzing rejoinders with an ease he’d have loved to see on a carnie thoroughfare. When Dante pressed the tea into his hands, he’d clung instead to his lover’s hand, stroking the back of Dante’s fingers while Cranston laid out firm but polite answers to Archie’s intrusive questions.
“Archie, I love you, man, but I’m dead on my feet here. Can you leave the cop alone so she can do her thing and I can go to bed? You didn’t treat Montoya and Camden this way when they came over.” Rook caught Hank’s eye roll and Dante’s snort. “Jesus, old man. Seriously?”
“I pay taxes, don’t you forget.” His grandfather took up his coffee mug, steadily bringing it to his lips. Slurping a bit down, he nodded at Cranston. “You I like. Those two… well, let’s just say it took a while. Then that one brought one of them home, and now I’m stuck with the pair of them. Just catch this bastard so I can get my house back in order.”
“I’ll do my best,” Cranston promised, a slight smile touching her lips. She flipped to a screen on her phone and asked Rook, “Do you have any objections to my recording this interview? I find it helps with my notes later.”
