He glances up at me as he swings the door in, giving me a shy smile.
The sound of a car engine in the drive pulls both of our attentions back out into the night. A marked police car rolls into view, closely followed by an unmarked sedan.
Julian straightens, his brows arching. The hair on the back of my neck rises. Oh no.
The passenger door of the unmarked vehicle opens and Julian moves to stand slightly in front of me…to protect me. But I can tell. I can just tell this is my fault.
I recognize the fedora first—it’s Mr. Cliché from the night I killed Jack Axelrod. Detective Jacobs. My throat goes dry, but I force my face to remain neutral as if I've never seen him before.
His eyes land on me, and he smiles, slow and pleased. “Hello officer," Julian says as the detective approaches. He's not worried. As a prominent, law-abiding citizen, why would he be?
"Mr. Styles, I'm Detective Jacobs.” Julian extends his hand, but Jacobs doesn’t take it. "I'd like you to come down to the station with me; we have some questions for you."
"Excuse me?" Julian stiffens, his hand dropping to his side.
Uniformed officers climb out of the marked car, the tools of their trade jangling on their belts. Jacobs flicks his gaze to me. "You sure you want me saying anything in front of the lady?” he asks Julian. Jacobs gives me a sly, almost-not-there smile—as if calling me a lady is at once an insult and a lie. I’m no lady—I’m a killer.
My lips tighten, and Julian stands taller. "I think you're confused. I’ve done nothing wrong and have nothing to hide."
"Then come with us and answer some questions, please.”
"What is this about?"
Jacob returns his attention to Julian. ”An incident with a young woman.” He drops his voice, the tone becoming almost sympathetic. “She's accusing you of some pretty serious crimes.”
Julian shakes his head, his curls bouncing. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"You should call your lawyer," I say quietly.
Julian glances back at me. His blue eyes are wide, but his expression is confused, unknowing. He doesn’t realize the danger he is in…yet. "Right." He returns his attention to Jacobs. "I'll be happy to come down to the station at a more convenient time with my attorney."
"Look—" Jacobs steps closer. "I don't want to have to arrest you.” He says it like he’s doing Julian a favor. “Then it's going to show up in the blotter, and the press will get hold of it."
“Arrest me?!” Julian's voice jumps—hitting the first note of fear.
"Just come with us now so we can get this over with." Julian doesn't move. I put my hand on his back, an attempt at comforting him. "Come on," Jacobs says, tilting his head toward the officers standing behind him.
"Who’s your lawyer?" I ask. "I can call for you."
Julian looks over his shoulder at me again. His eyes are wide…so blue. "Diane March, but she does entertainment."
"Your agent is Lawrence Fishberg, right?"
He nods. "I'll call everyone." I lower my voice, though I'm sure Jacobs can hear me.
Julian's jaw stiffens. "No." His voice has gone cold, and he turns back to the detective. "Let me see the arrest warrant."
Jacobs's mouth tightens. "Look, you've been accused of rape. I can arrest you for that without a warrant."
"Can you?" Julian straightens, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone. He scrolls through, Jacobs watching with a scowl on his face. "Diane," Julian says into the phone. "I've got a detective here who wants me to come in for questioning about a rape accusation. He says he can arrest me."
Julian waits and listens, then holds the phone out to Jacobs. The detective does not take the slim handset, just steps back and waves to the uniformed officers. They move forward, the one in the front, a tall white guy with pockmarked cheeks, pulling out his handcuffs.
"You’re under arrest," he begins. There is squawking from the phone. Julian holds it to his ear.
"They are arresting me." Then he hands the phone to me before offering his wrists.
My heart is hammering. This is my fault. How can I stop it? I put the phone to my ear.
"Which station are they taking him to?” a female voice on the other end asks.
"Where are you taking him?" I ask the officer.
"The Hollywood station on Wilcox Avenue," he answers.
I tell the lawyer on the line. "I'll meet him there." She hangs up, and I am left clenching Julian's phone as they walk him to the back of the cruiser.
Jacobs steps up close to me. "Brave fellow you've got there," he says, humor lacing his voice.
A chill runs down my spine, but I keep my face neutral as I meet Jacobs’s dark gaze. "Screw you." I bring false bravado into my voice.
"You better do what Grand asks…and soon.” Jacobs smiles a toothy grin. “This is just the beginning. We're going after your grandma next."
I step closer to him, and his eyebrows twitch, but Jacobs does not retreat. There are only inches between us. I can feel the heat of his body and smell the stink of sour coffee. "You'd regret that," I say. “She survived the Nazis when she was nine. Nine.” I raise my brows. “I think she can handle you.” My eyes drop down between us, examining his body, and when my gaze returns to his, I make it obvious that I find him lacking.
"We'll see who has regrets," Jacobs says, but his voice has lost its edge. I affected him. I’ll do much more than that. He moves off toward his vehicle as anger churns in my gut.
Julian makes eye contact from the back seat—sparkling sapphires shining in the dome light. I take a step forward. “Your lawyer will meet you there," I say. He nods and forces a smile.
“This is all a misunderstanding,” he says, his voice rough with emotion.
“I know.”
The cars pull out, their tires quiet on the freshly paved drive. The rise and fall of nocturnal insects fills in the soundscape. The distant smoke tinges the air as I pull out my phone to call Temperance.
I chew on my lip while I wait for him to answer. “We need to meet," I say when Temperance picks up.
"Okay." His voice is quiet, and I can hear the sounds of a restaurant behind him.
"I'm at Julian's house. He just got arrested."
"Did he?" There is a hint of curiosity in his voice but no fear or shock.
"Yes, get here now." I hang up and clench my phone tight to keep my hand from shaking.
Turning to the house, I stare at the partially open door. Should I go inside? I need a glass of water and to sit down. Julian certainly wouldn’t mind.
I enter a large living room with a glass wall exposing the glittering city, an infinity pool in the foreground. Modern yet comfortable looking couches and chairs are grouped in seating areas. Along the wall to my left is a kitchen with a large central island.
Closing the door behind me, I find the light switch, illuminating the space in soft white and rose. It's beautiful. Julian is not only hot, smart, and talented, but he also has incredible taste.
And I’m ruining his life.
Chapter Fifteen
Temperance arrives twenty minutes later, driving a sleek black Mercedes. He unfolds from the driver’s seat and comes around the front, the engine ticking as he passes.
I stand in the doorway, hands clasped tight. He doesn't wait for an invitation into the house, just strolls in, like he's been here before. The fragrance of leather and wine wafts off of him.
Temperance pulls a device out of his pocket, about the size of a cellphone, and turns it on. Quickly scanning the room, he nods to himself and then waves for us to leave.
In his car, the air conditioning makes me shiver as he pulls away from the house, passes through the open gates and begins to wind down from the hills. “Tell me what happened.” I explain about Detective Jacobs. "He's got people everywhere,” Temperance says, nodding as if he expected something like this to happen.
"Grand? That just doesn’t make sense. He was a celebrity and business man a year
ago. How does he have so much political power?"
Temperance's jaw tightens before he answers. "White supremacists."
The words hit me like a punch to the stomach. Nazis, they always come for us.
"My grandmother survived the Nazis." It comes out quiet but firm.
"She survived by fleeing," Temperance points out.
"I guess sometimes you have to flee. Besides, she was a child. What was she supposed to do?” I sound angry, almost scared. I bite my lip to banish the weakness.
The road twists and curves down the mountain. Mansions hide behind high walls and lush landscaping.
"Fleeing won't work this time,” Temperance says.
"I'm not trying to flee. I want this life. I want everything I've worked for." Everything I've killed for. "What are we going to do?" I turn to Temperance. We're in this together.
"I have a safe house we can stay in tonight. I’m not sure you’d be safe at home.” He checks his blind spot and merges onto the highway.
"I have a big meeting tomorrow. The director of my new movie, Troy Woods. I need to go see him. And what about Julian?”
“We will do everything we can for him.” A ball of nausea swirls in my stomach. Julian doesn't deserve this; he should be with some nice girl. "Don't feel too bad about it," Temperance says, as if reading my thoughts. "It's not your fault."
"Isn't it?" My voice comes out sounding soft, edged with regret.
"Is it your fault Jack Axelrod attacked you? That I approached you?"
"It's my fault I said yes. I could've taken the punishment due, and Julian wouldn't be in jail right now."
"Right." Temperance says it like it's not right. "And your grandmother could have stayed in Romania and been gassed with the rest of her family. But she chose to flee. She left them all behind, and she made it out alive."
"And she's a bitter old bitch. She survived. She's still breathing. But she's been miserable her whole damn life."
Temperance glances over at me, pulling his eyes from the road for just a moment. I don't meet his gaze. "You're saying she would've been better off dead?"
"I don't know. I don't know what I'm saying. All I know is that my choices landed Julian in jail tonight."
Temperance lets out a laugh. "No, they didn't—at least not on their own. Grand's choices did, or even Julian's. Or just fate." Traffic slows and the brake lights in front of us throw a red hue across Temperance’s face. "Nothing is any one person’s fault. It's all a kind of elaborate chain reaction."
“Or it is all just chaos, atoms crashing into each other?”
“Either way, not your fault.”
I can’t help the laugh that releases.
Temperance’s safe house turns out to be an entire floor in one of the newly renovated old factory buildings downtown with junkies nodding off outside the plush lobby. Very LA Sunshine, celebrity and incredible wealth in the high rises and hills, with drug addicts and desperation huddled at its base.
The elevator opens right into the apartment’s living room. Distressed, painted wood floors, high, iron-beamed ceilings, and the redolence of sandalwood greet us. There is a kitchen along the back wall, and a lanky, nerdy guy is standing behind the marble-topped island, his brown eyes huge behind thick glasses. “Justin, meet Angela,” Temperance says, moving through the uncluttered space.
Justin stumbles as he comes around, grabbing at the counter to stay upright. He’s recognized me and can’t quite handle it. The man’s face goes beet red. So, not an agent. “Angela, this is Justin,” Temperance says as he pulls out one of the leather stools for me.
The nerdy guy works his jaw a couple of times before finally squeaking out a hello. He’s still holding onto the counter where he caught himself. “Evening,” I say.
Justin’s eyes jump to Temperance, who smiles at him. “We need to discuss a problem,” Temperance says. Justin swallows and straightens, releasing the counter and nodding. Temperance turns to me. “Can I get you a glass of water or a cup of tea before we begin?”
“Sure, water,” I say.
Moments later, we are at the large dining room table. Justin projects from his laptop onto a screen lowered from the ceiling. A photograph of Detective Jacobs wearing a uniform and looking about twenty years younger glows in the dim room. “Detective Abraham Jacobs,” Justin says, his voice deeper and more confident now that’s he behind his computer screen. “He’s been a suspected ‘ghost skin’ since 1991.”
“A ghost skin?” I ask, turning to Justin.
His screen reflects in his glasses, hiding his gaze. “It’s a term for white supremacists who hide their beliefs in order to further their cause.”
“Oh.” My voice comes out sounding small.
“In 1991, Jacobs was working in a local branch of the LA county sheriff’s department where a neo-Nazi gang of officers were convicted for habitually terrorizing black and Latino residents. Jacobs was suspected of being a member of the group but never faced prosecution. He’s continued to move up the ranks of the LA police department. In 2006, when the FBI released a report warning of white supremacists infiltrating police forces across the nation, we started tracking him closely. He’s a leader and recruiter for a ‘social club’ that calls themselves the ‘blue brotherhood.’ ”
“Why is he still on the force? Can’t he be arrested and tried?” I ask.
Temperance shifts in his chair before answering. “Not enough political will.” He sits forward, resting his elbows on the table, his gaze holding mine. “To put it bluntly, the history of law enforcement in the United States is linked to the history of white supremacy. The origin of U.S. policing lies in the slave patrols of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.” He looks down at his hands where they are interlaced on the wooden table.
When his gaze returns to mine it’s softer, gentle—like he is about to impart some sad news. “In 2009, three years after the initial report warning of the infiltration of police forces, a joint report between Homeland Security and the FBI was issued, warning that white supremacist groups were recruiting ‘disgruntled’ veterans and law enforcement officers due to their skills and training. The report concluded that ‘lone wolves and small terrorist cells embracing violent right-wing extremist ideology are the most dangerous domestic terrorism threat in the United States.’ ” A shiver runs down my spine, and I have to look away, staring at my glass of water.
“Conservative groups freaked out and the report was rescinded,” Temperance goes on, his voice calm, free of accusation, though his words are sickening. “In fact, Homeland Security stopped tracking the groups altogether, and now it’s just the FBI.” Temperance pauses. “And us.”
He sits back into his chair. “The military took action—they began to screen members for white supremacy tattoos and have done a relatively effective job of rooting out the extremists in their ranks, but police departments are not centralized. There is also a lack of will to rid many departments of racists. Fifty years ago, in many parts of the South, entire departments were made up of Klan members. And beyond that, being a member of a white supremacy group isn’t in itself illegal. Freedom of speech.”
“So you”—I look between the two of them—“keep track of the racist police officers?”
“We have a team,” Justin says. “Temperance has a lot of autonomy.” Pride deepens his voice even further. His back is straighter—the nerdy guy is looking more like a secret agent all of a sudden. But he’s still overly affected by a beautiful woman.
“It’s sickening,” I say, feeling the truth of it my gut. “Is what’s happening with Grand and Jacobs connected to Vladimir in some way?” I ask. “I’ve read about the suspected Russian interference in the election.”
Justin looks over at Temperance, who gives nothing away, his face that strong, stone statue again. “I can’t go into details about Vladimir,” Temperance answers. “But we can draw a straight line from Jacobs to Grand now, thanks to you.” Temperance gives me a predatory smile. It’s chilling… al
most like he’s happy about what happened to Julian. Or even manipulated it into happening somehow.
“We suspected that Grand had ties to white supremacist groups,” Temperance goes on. “They support him on Twitter and other social media. And while he is not about to admit a close connection, he has avoided opportunities to condemn them.”
“I don’t think he’s going to admit it now,” I point out.
“No, we don’t need him to.” Temperance nods to Justin, who types into his computer for a moment.
My watch beeps, a reminder to take Archie out for his final pee. “I’ve got to go home,” I say. “Archie is alone.”
Temperance pulls out his phone. “I’ll have him picked up.”
Right, because you can access my apartment whenever you want. Awesome.
After sending off a quick message, Temperance returns his attention to me. “Grand has made several mistakes. This proof of his connection to Jacobs is the nail in the coffin.”
“What were the others?” I ask.
“Besides trying to get you to assassinate me?” Temperance raises an eyebrow. “I can’t go into details at this time.”
“Will there be a time?”
“Perhaps.” Come on. I give off a dramatic sigh, and Temperance smiles, almost like he is enjoying my frustration. “You know other things about him from the news—the accusations of sexual assault.” The screen flashes, and images of the women who have come out claiming that Grand forced unwanted touching on them glow to life.
“But that can be easily challenged,” I point out, the bitterness in my voice coating my tongue. “We all know that women are often not believed when they claim sexual assault.” Temperance nods. “It’s what got me into this situation in the first place,” I mutter.
“And what we assume is a false accusation against Julian is what has brought us here tonight.”
“Right,” I say, sitting forward. “And what are we going to do about that?”
Temperance smile grows into a grin. "We have to kill Grand." His words strike me like a fist to the solar plexus, stealing my breath and numbing my limbs.
A Spy Is Born Page 16
