Savage Distractions (The Love is Murder Social Club Book 3)

by Talia Maxwell

  “What the fuck, dude,” Benson replied, his anger flaring more than he intended. “Honestly…”

  But before he could continue his rant, the man from the bathroom came and stood between him and the Oceanside Lounge, moving his jacket to show the handle of a handgun hidden inside.

  “Go and finish your dinner, Benson,” the man said again and as Benson drew a breath, aggravated but silent, the partner closed his jacket and stepped aside. He knew there was no way they would let him get in his car and drive away without doing back inside and finishing his dinner. “We’ll be waiting right here.” The men settled around the car, the exhaust filling the sky behind them.

  “Is this for real?” he asked.

  No one answered him.

  Benson trudged back to his seat and saw the woman now sitting in the booth as he approached. The food from before was gone, the plates cleared, and new wine had been poured. The woman held her own glass by the stem and watched as he moved forward, confused, interested.

  She had brown and silver hair and she was still wearing her long black jacket, the lapel up. The woman didn’t turn to watch him as he approached or as he neared the booth, she kept looking ahead, unmoving.

  He took his seat and unfurled the new napkin into his lap.

  “I’m guessing the goons outside belong to you,” Benson mentioned.

  She reached up and adjusted an earring.

  “I took the liberty to order you my favorite merlot. The waiter said you’d ordered a red. I’ve also reordered your dinner. It’s okay, she’s fine. She’s been compensated for the interruption of the evening with a fantastic story, Mr. Douglass. Isn’t that wonderful? Next date at Twoly, she’ll have a perfect answer to give someone who asks about her worst first date.”

  It was hard to feign surprise that the woman sitting across from him knew about his date word-for-word; he was confident he could figure the rest of it out on his own.

  “Was she wired?” he asked.

  The woman laughed. “Goodness. No, don’t be so paranoid. I was sitting behind you, darling. And it’s easy to eavesdrop in the Oceanside. Let’s get this over with. Okay.” She set a small black clutch on the table and opened the snap, pulling the two sides open and peering inside. The woman pulled out a piece of paper and slid it across the table to Benson with a single finger.

  He opened it and shut it again.

  It was a check for ten thousand dollars.

  “What is this?” he asked.

  “That’s your money back,” the woman answered. She snapped her clutch shut and took a sip of her drink. “Every penny. You’re not out anything, we simply refuse service, and the company doesn’t have to deal with a duplicitous documentarian…”

  “Wait a second,” Benson replied, starting to get the fuller picture. “Who are you? I paid for this service for myself…this has nothing to do with my work.”

  “You paid for this service with the intention to write about it. Benson, I sat right there tonight,” she pointed over his head, “and listened to you admit as much to Miss Andrea. So. There’s a lie. Among other lies. So, I am using my power within the company as a shareholder to ask you to leave. There’s nothing for you here. Do you understand?”

  Benson opened the check again and looked in the top left corner. Remington Estates, the payee read. He looked up and sighed, tapping the check and her name, making the connection.

  “You’re Linda.” He clucked a tongue. “And you no longer run Twoly.”

  “And you’re no longer a customer at Twoly. No more dates. No more podcasts. Stay away from our company and our customers.” She needn’t put an emphasis on customer, but Benson knew.

  “I’ve had half a date,” Benson said, “how can you decide my intentions after half a date? I wasn’t exploiting anyone…I wasn’t going to ruin people’s lives with my essays. I was going to paint a true picture of my own personal dating life.”

  “I bet it would’ve been incredible. Paint it with a different service, darling. This one is restricted.”

  “From me only?” He paused and put his hands on the table. “Linda…let me ask you a question.”

  “Ms. Remington is fine and Mr. Douglass, I’m not interested in battling you tonight nor ever, is that clear? It was brought to my attention that your motives are murky and I’m making an executive decision to free myself from the worry of having to wonder. In addition to that, you were aware that Twoly had an income requirement that you do not fulfill.”

  “That’s harsh,” he said nodding. But true. He’d lied on his assets. Those bastards fact-checked him. “You don’t own Twoly anymore. Why are you here? Wait. Wait. Let me guess…”

  Linda settled back, wine in hand, her gray hair falling in her face and she watched him. She was calm, composed, focused on him with full intention and ease. Benson recognized and smelled the scene—she had all the power and she was wielding it with great energy.

  “You know we discovered your connection to the victims of the Cannon Beach Murders. And you want me far away from it.”

  He watched her features for a flicker, a flash, recognition, but there was nothing. Linda did not move for a long sixty-second count until she took a drink and set her glass down, leaning forward across the table.

  “Excellent,” she nodded, leaned back and slow-clapped. “You’re right.”

  Benson, anticipating a denial, withered.

  “I knew both William and Missy from very different circles in my life. I disclosed that to police, Benson. You didn’t discover shit. You’re only following some loose thread and you’re gonna unravel a whole garment to find out there’s nothing there at the end for you. I built an empire with Twoly and passed it along to women I respect. You won’t go in and topple it with your irresponsibility.”

  “I call it truth,” Benson answered, feeling lofty.

  “Of course you do. No journalist ever willingly abandons a story that could earn him awards and accolades…I know what you’re seeking. Those men out there belong to me. You have no idea what I’m protecting…as long as you get to know first, it’s all okay? Mr. Douglass, I don’t operate like that.”

  “You understand that you can’t tell me to stay away from researching the Cannon Beach Murders.”

  “Let me save you time in your research.” Linda finished her wine and left her hands folded on the table around the stem of the glass. She ran her hand across her mouth once and said, “I was a friend of Robin’s.” She sighed deeply, her eyes watery. “You’ve heard, I suppose, then about the crash.” He nodded. “Right.” Her emotion was gone—allowed only a second to show. “I only met Bill once…at a dinner party. He was lovely. Missy, well, she came looking for a job.”

  “At Twoly?” Benson asked.

  Linda eyed him savagely. “You don’t get to ask questions. I’m not here to answer your questions.”

  “Continue.”

  “She worked for me for one week before the murder. And losing them like that…it gutted me. Gutted. Shocked. So, there’s your connection. There’s no magic arrow from me that points to who did this…I’m not the star you were hoping for. You lied to my girls and are digging into my past. I don’t care what you do next Benson, but you stay the hell away from anything related to me. And Twoly is related to me.”

  “I’m assuming this whole conversation is all on the record,” he asked.

  He’d meant it jokingly, but Linda roared forward, hitting the table with such force that the water jumped and landed in a pool around the glass.

  “Go home,” she said through clenched teeth. “This is not your story.”

  He patted the check for ten-grand in his pocket. His entire investment back and his entire story idea in the drain. Except, Linda’s presence meant there was something to the Twoly connection and everyone would go to great lengths to preserve the company’s trust with its wealthy clientele.

  “I’ve moved to the beach,” he replied, regaining his composure, running through all the things about tonight he n
eeded to remember. The waiter brought him his food re-ordered and Linda watched him as he ate, unblinking.

  “You’re not smarter, you’re not wealthier, and you’re not more connected. If you want to take me on at least know what you’re up against.”

  She reached into her clutch a second time and pulled out gloves. She put them on her hands and stood, tugging her coat tighter around her body.

  “Goodnight, Mr. Douglass. Andrea now has a date story. The night her date was banned from the matchmaking service and issued a full refund to go away. He was so intense that she even needed bodyguard protection.”

  “I can find women on my own,” Benson said, but as the statement left his mouth he realized how it made him sound.

  Linda laughed and nodded. “Oh yes. Most men who spend this much for strangers to find them a date can find women on their own. Is it finding women, Benson, that you have an issue with?” she turned toward the exit and then shifted back to him. “Or could it be that you just can’t keep them around?” she winked. “Good night. If you need anything else, call my lawyer.”

  Before Benson understood anything that was happening, Linda Remington left the Oceanside Lounge and abandoned him to finish his cooling dinner on his own.

  Chapter Eleven

  Jack Gerwitz was a prosecutor and he had his sights set on the DA position. Ever since Annie was little, her father talked about working for the district attorneys and following that career as high as it would go. Once, her father entertained a candidate for president for dinner and an expensive bottle of brandy in an effort to keep his federal options open.

  And when he called Annie and said he was flying into Astoria and could she meet him for lunch, Annie was confused.

  “You’re flying in…from where?” Annie asked.

  “I’ve got a new client who is running a helicopter charter.”

  “You’re just trying it out? For fun?”

  “I have business at the coast, too.”

  “Is that business me?” Annie asked in a jovial way, expecting him to chuckle and say something sweet and patronizing, but he cleared his throat. “Oh, is it?” she asked, suddenly aware of the shift in his tone.

  “I’ll see you at noon,” he instructed without leaving room for argument. He often forgot Annie didn’t pick her own hours—she was beholden to the court—and he only lucked out that she was free.

  Her father was flying out to talk to her over lunch.

  The only other time her father had flown out alone to take her to lunch, he was begging her to dump her college boyfriend. She was in college. The boyfriend wasn’t. He begged, although it looked like anger and authoritarian ridiculousness, and she was afraid to say no. He’d told her that he could not in good conscience pay for the wedding of a couple destined to fail.

  Her ex was blue-collar. A corrections officer. His politics were rough, but he was reading the books she picked for him, and even though he’d been unable to impress her parents, she didn’t care. He was like a gentle giant of a man and he always let her pick dessert. He couldn’t provide and his idea of a fancy dinner was at a chain restaurant at the mall, but Annie knew she could change one of those things.

  Then Jack Gerwitz flew out to see her and tell her that she couldn’t keep seeing the corrections officer with the tattoo of Jesus on his arm and he had to issue threats before she agreed, beaten down, worn out, and defeated.

  Annie took a breath.

  It was ten. She had two hours to prepare for her father. She popped in her headphones and set her phone to play meditation music as she began to work on her afternoon cases, pushing the idea of lunch far away. The best way to prepare for Jack was by not preparing at all.

  “You invited me to lunch to tell me to stop looking into William Schubert’s murder?” she asked and her mouth hung open in a wide gap, her fork dangling. “You know, William. The guy you knew…whose house you’ve been to…huh,” Annie sighed. She’d wasted no time in pulling everything she could—and she set down her fork and folded her hands, no longer hungry. “Just like that. You want to tell me to stop.” She raised a single eyebrow, but that was as brave as she could muster.

  They’d met at a brewery on the bay where glass floors gave patrons an opportunity to spy on the sea lion caves below, and she’d ordered herself a stout, her father a red wine, and it was shortly after the waitress brought her a salad appetizer he launched into his ulterior motive.

  “I’m being as overt as I can without violating privacy to tell you…my only daughter and the best lawyer I produced—”

  “Dad…” she winced. He always said that. The best lawyer he produced.

  “…that this is not a road I want you to travel down.”

  “You’ve never told me to back away from something before,” Annie said with a heavy dose of sarcasm, and her father flinched with the recognition of how his request might have sounded. He brought up his hand and his nostrils flared a bit like they did when he knew he was caught in a mess and couldn’t talk himself out.

  But Annie saw something else in her father’s demeanor that gave her pause. She thought, for a moment, she saw fear.

  “Usually our interests don’t cross paths in this manner,” Jack replied, smooth as a politician, graced with the ability to slip through a conversation without saying anything, yet sounding like the smartest man in the room. He was a tall person, wide shoulders, a gruff, leathery exterior that made him look like he’d spent years in tanning beds instead of in courthouses and jails.

  “You were protecting Robin,” Annie said. “But dad….Robin….she’s…did you hear?”

  “I’m not protecting Robin and I had heard, yes, about the crash. No more Schubert murders…why don’t you stick to your steady clientele of reliable meth heads and trust me when I have told you to back off.”

  That was all he was going to say about it. He nodded and his jaw tightened. Annie wondered if her dad did Botox injections to keep his forehead from giving away all his emotions like hers did.

  She knew she looked pained and aghast, hurt even. Her chin trembled with impending emotion and if he’d said anything else she wouldn’t have been able to hold it all inside, but he turned to his drink and stared ahead, waiting for the conversation to move forward.

  Jack was impervious to her facial expressions.

  A hollow feeling spread down Annie’s stomach and she felt a cramp. It wasn’t just queasiness, but a certain immediate desire to get up and run away from the lunch as fast as she could.

  No. She took a breath. There was a sister and she was a victim. There was a boy. Lost in the system.

  “How did you hear I was pulling Schubert info?” Annie asked and she looked down, averting her eyes from his penetrating gaze, his clear displeasure at having to speak on the issue more.

  The Christmas stout collected sweat on the glass and created a wet rim on the table. She picked it up and moved it a few inches, then dragged the glass, spreading the water into a long line.

  Her dad didn’t answer. He picked up his red wine glass by the stem and lifted it to his lips to drink a pause into their conversation. When he put the glass down, he leveled his gaze. “You have no legal reason to explore this case only a passing curiosity,” he said slowly.

  “You’re wrong. I have a client. And an ethical,” she gulped, took a breath, “responsibility to her.”

  Jack narrowed his eyes and leaned in closer. “Who’s your client and what’s their relation to the case.”

  “I don’t have to tell you.”

  “Bull shit,” Jack mumbled. “Annie, I’m not going to fight you. But I’m also not willing to bury you, either. So…let me ask you something,” he leaned in and motioned for her hand, Annie reluctantly handed it over to him. He held it. “You saw the murder scene photos?”

  She nodded.

  “That image won’t ever leave you. The brutality of what one human can do to another. You’ll carry it with you.”

  “I’ve always carried it with me, Dad. I�
��m your kid, after all,” she said and bit back a sudden impulse to cry.

  “Here’s what you need to know. Okay? You’re never going to catch the people that did this. And chasing it might open up old monsters, Annie. I want to leave here today and leave those monsters sleeping. You understand?”

  “You’ve been clear, Dad,” Annie replied with more attitude than she’d intended. She wondered if her father brought out her inner teenager.

  Jack Gerwitz bowed his head and when he looked up at her, he had the same look of reproach she’d come to loathe as a child. By the time her dad had her, he was merely so grateful he finally had a girl that he was tired enough and busy enough to let her rule her roll. However, when she proved smarter and more stubborn than her brothers, it was easy to see who would become the little protégé.

  Every child went into law to impress him, but only Annie ever could.

  That was the truth.

  But Annie hated that within that hierarchy of her family there were still rules for her that he would never ask of her brothers. It was the patriarchy at hand; she knew it and could recognize it, but couldn’t damn well speak up in her own home about it.

  He assumed she was on board; he resumed eating—not noticing that she was frozen into place, her shoulders rising and falling in small waves.

  “How’s the dating going? Your mother said your first date was bad. A doctor though? What kind?”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  “Wasn’t that one of your criticisms? That he didn’t ask enough questions?”

  “Sounds like Mom told you enough. What else do you need to know?”

  “Is my money going to be worth it?” he chuckled to himself and finished off the wine.

  If Annie had been holding a fork, she would’ve thrown it down in protest. Instead, she had to settle for a deep sigh and staring up at the brewery’s exposed-beamed ceiling, hoping someone would call her away from the dreadful activity of continuing the conversation.

  “That’s rude, Dad,” Annie said. She pushed her plate further away so he might get the hint that he’d ruined her appetite. He didn’t notice she wasn’t eating.