“Of course,” Jayne said, “otherwise, you’ll be in your office.”
If that’s what the lady wanted, she’d get it. “Fine.”
“Are you interested in Val forwarding my client calls to your cell? I could request she forward them to another P.I. in town, but since you will be here…”
“Fine.”
“Excellent.” She closed her eyes for a moment, then slowly reopened them. “Thank you, both of you. It is reassuring to not have to worry about the agency while…” A look of withdrawal came over her face as she glanced away.
Drake followed the focus of her attention. It was that painting on the far wall. A city landscape. Maybe a place she’d once lived or visited or perhaps where her family came from.
His father, who had worked in hotel security for years, had known Jayne peripherally. Drake recalled his once saying she had lived with a woman, a lawyer, somewhere downtown. He wondered if that had been in the back apartment.
Drake wasn’t one to grieve openly, but after a few beers, he sometimes loosened up about his dad, his brother. He would bet Jayne never did that. She faced her ghosts alone.
And now she was facing life’s harshest challenger. Death. Not that it was at her door, but it was lurking in the neighborhood. If anybody could outmaneuver the Grim Reaper, it was sure as hell Jayne.
But if not…
He thought of his father those last few weeks of his life, their talks, Drake’s promises.
“Anything you need, Jayne, call me. My phone is on 24/7. Don’t worry about the office or clients or…” He scratched his throat. “The mentoring. I’ll be here. I promise.”
CHAPTER SIX
AN HOUR LATER, Drake stood at a door marked 3B in the Willow Creek Apartments, which were nowhere near a willow or a creek. The building sat in a not-so-good Vegas neighborhood, but being on the third floor, with a picturesque view of the busy U.S. Route 95, gave it some security.
He knocked on the door.
“Who’s there?” asked a peculiarly strained male voice.
“Drake. Open up.”
After several clicks and the sliding grate of a latch, the door creaked open. A paunchy, barefoot guy in chinos and a T-shirt with the words I’m Calmer Than You Are stood there, his eyes pinker than some people liked their steaks. An old Aerosmith tune, “Sweet Emotion,” played in the background.
“Aqua Man,” he murmured around an exhale of smoke, “long time no see. Worried that Mayan apocalypse got you, my brother.”
Drake wished his nickname had stayed back in high school along with pimple cream and bad cafeteria food, but it had stuck, being used by people who overheard others use it or who, like Li’l Bit, thought the name sounded groovy.
“Can I come in?”
His buddy stepped back and made a gesture as though he was welcoming a player to a game show.
Entering Li’l Bit’s place was like stepping into the ‘70s. The furniture was a mix of wicker, chunky wood and chrome lamps. A creepy spider plant dominated a corner, seemingly thriving on stray fluorescent light aimed at a poster of Hendrix with a rainbow flowing out of his guitar.
“Shut the door,” Drake said. “We gotta talk.”
Li’l Bit, who claimed he got his nickname after answering “a little bit” whenever asked if he liked something, complied.
“You gotta air out this place,” Drake said, waving his hand. “It reeks of weed.”
“Man, you should talk. You smell like a marshmallow roast.”
Drake swiped at his hairline. “My place burned down last night.”
Li’l Bit pressed his palm to his forehead as though keeping the thoughts in place. “Whoa, no…you mean…”
“Arson.”
A stricken look crossed his face. “Hearsay?”
“Smoke inhalation, but he’s okay.”
Next thing Drake knew, he was wrapped in a bear hug. The kind only a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound man, most of it heart, could give.
Ever since Drake had hired Li’l Bit four years ago to serve some legal papers, the two of them had clicked. Not because they shared interests—Drake could care less about ganja, three-day concert festivals and the film The Big Lebowski—but they shared a passion for their professions.
Li’l Bit, born Nathan Davidovitch to Lillian and Bernie Davidovitch of Brooklyn, had been enrolled at Brooklyn Law School five years ago. After falling in love with a massage therapist named Xela and following her to Vegas, he’d opened a process server business, Boss Services, Inc., with the motto When You Want It Done Right, Leave It With the Boss.
He probably would have returned to Brooklyn after the breakup with Xela, but by then Boss Services, Inc. was thriving, and Li’l Bit had grown attached to the aging dogs at the canine retirement ranch project where he volunteered.
“I got your back, my brother,” Li’l Bit said, pulling away, his eyes filling with tears. “Wanna beer?”
Minutes later, the brew had chilled Drake’s mood. Not completely, but enough that Aerosmith’s rocking, rolling and screaming was starting to sound good.
“Man,” his pal murmured, dragging his hand over his puffed-out curly hair, “Yuri is one sick dude. Arson investigators on it?”
“One was at the scene.” Drake took another swig. “Name’s Tony Cordova.”
“But you didn’t give Yuri up.”
“He’s mine.”
“Aqua Man,” Li’l Bit muttered, “taking on the Russian Mafia solo…” He gave his head a slow shake, as though the thought was too heavy to contemplate.
“I’m not taking on the army, just one soldier.”
“This Tony dude could help you.”
Drake took a swig of beer. Tony had already left a message, but he hadn’t wanted to talk to him yet.
For the next few moments, as they listened to Aerosmith crooning about getting a thrill from the smell of a girl’s hair, Drake flashed on Val at Dino’s. Those big brown eyes. Her soapy, fresh scent. How the heat of her body fused with the heat of the night.
He imagined peeling off those little triangles of fabric, exposing her full, ripe breasts. Unzipping that red miniskirt and pulling it down, down, over her shapely legs, and helping her step out of it in those sky-high heels. He smiled, remembering her beloved Saints’ emblem, the fleur-de-lis, on the shoes.
She loved that team so much, he wouldn’t be surprised if she had a tat of a fleur-de-lis. On her lower back? Thigh? Nestled somewhere between those pale, plump breasts?
“…she’d eat him alive, man.”
Took Drake a moment to reel his thoughts to the present. “Huh?”
Li’l Bit picked up a bag of Cheetos and tilted it toward Drake, who waved it off. “Hearsay can’t stay at your mom’s. That Maxine, she’s one badass feline she-hulk.” He popped a Cheeto into his mouth.
Maxine, a crossed-eyed Siamese cat, thought she was put on this earth to dominate it. Li’l Bit had been with him on a day when Drake had dropped by his mom’s with Hearsay. The plan had been to keep Maxine sequestered in the spare bedroom, but his grandmother accidentally opened the door, and like a deranged, heat-seeking missile with fur, Maxine found and cornered Hearsay within seconds. Poor dog shook for a solid hour after that encounter.
“My landlord’s cool with pets, so I can keep Hearsay here,” his pal offered, helping himself to another Cheeto. “Plus he can do my rounds with me at the canine retirement ranch. Those old dudes love youngsters’ company.”
“I don’t want him turning into a stoner.”
“For you, my brother, I’ll only toke in the bathroom, with the fan on. Hearsay won’t even get a whiff of secondhand smoke.”
“Good. Mind if I stay, too?”
“Thought you’d crash at your mom and Glenda’s.”
Glenda, his grandmother, and Li’l Bit were a mutual admiration society ever since the Hearsay-Maxine encounter. Li’l Bit had stood between the cat and dog while Glenda maneuvered her wheelchair to the kitchen, returning with salmon, Maxine’s fav
orite. While she distracted the cat, he got Hearsay to safety.
Since then, the two of them got together for occasional evenings of Inner Sanctum Mysteries on old Lux Radio recordings. While Glenda puffed her nightly cigarillo and sipped a martini, Li’l Bit drank beer. He said he didn’t smoke weed during those visits, but knowing Glenda, she wouldn’t care.
“Can’t leave my dog,” Drake answered. After what happened, he didn’t want to leave Hearsay alone again, ever. Of course, that wasn’t practical. Couldn’t take the dog into courthouses, restaurants, clients’ offices…but for the next few weeks, he didn’t want to leave him alone at night. As much as his dog needed the reassurance that he was okay, Drake probably needed it more.
Li’l Bit held up his hand, palm out. “Gotta be there for your dog, man. Give me five.”
Drake slapped his hand. “I also don’t want to stay at Mom’s, because I don’t want Yuri following me there. Here I’m not worried about that. Dozens of apartments, people coming and going at all hours, hundreds of cars zipping down the freeway with a view of your front door…Yuri would be too visible.”
Li’l Bit nodded. “Plus I got a peephole.”
“Then why’d you ask who I was?”
“Forgot to look.”
“Buddy,” he said, motioning his head toward the baggie of ganja, “you need to ease up on that stuff.”
He looked thoughtful for a moment. “Think I’m a marijuana addict?”
“Yes. No. I’m no expert.”
“But you’re a gambling addict.”
Drake nodded.
“You go to those twelve-step meetings?”
“No, I went to a therapist.”
Li’l Bit did a dramatic double-take. “You? I don’t mean that negative, man. It’s just…you talking for, like, an hour is like matter absorbing space and expelling it into the past.”
Drake paused. “I can’t believe you actually say things like that…and mean them.” When Li’l Bit opened his mouth to speak, Drake cut him off with a halting gesture. “On to the next topic. I want to install an outdoor surveillance camera with motion-detection ability at Mom’s.”
Li’l Bit blinked. “Dude, you’re overreacting. No way Yuri’s going there. Anyway, your mom…” He blew out a whoosh of breath, scenting the air with Cheetos and beer. “She has a heavy antisecurity thing, man.”
“I know.” When his dad had insisted on putting bars on the windows, his mom had a fit. I live in a home, Benny, not a prison.
“Glenda, though, she gets the twenty-first century. Eighty-five and still rockin’. She’d dig a surveillance camera pointed at the porch—then she’d know if it was worthwhile to drive across the house to answer the door. That new wheelchair of hers is slick. Goes up to twelve miles an hour.”
“She said five.”
“Probably didn’t want to worry you.”
“What could worry me about her driving fast…” The truth hit him like a Mack truck. “She’s taking it outside.”
“You didn’t hear that from me, man.”
“She’s driving that chair outside? She’s too old to drive alone!”
“That’s what she said you’d say.”
“In this heat, too.”
“She only goes out at night.”
Drake took a last draw on his beer, not taking his eyes off Li’l Bit. He set the bottle on the steamer trunk. “You know more than you’re letting on.”
“I promised Glenda I’d keep my mouth shut.”
“Yeah. Wouldn’t want matter devouring space and the universe doing a backflip.”
“Dude, don’t be angry. It’s not a bad thing I can’t talk about. It’s about love and life force, man.”
It pissed Drake off that Li’l Bit wouldn’t open up, but he couldn’t begrudge his friend keeping his promise.
“Whatever’s going on,” Drake said, “I need to spark some common sense in Grams about driving in the dark. Especially after her nightly martini.”
“She’s a strong-willed lady.”
“Tell me about it. Mom’s just as bad.”
Seemed as if every women he crossed paths with lately had a beef or an agenda. He admired Jayne, loved his mother and Grams…was mostly confounded by Miss Who Dat…but each of them had a way of being demanding and defiant. Like somebody had called a war between the sexes and forgotten to tell the men.
He was going to emerge from these entanglements either angry, frustrated or, God help him, a feminist.
“You visiting Glenda soon?”
“Was thinking about doing it now, before I pick up Hearsay. Need to talk in person about the fire.”
“Yeah, man, heavy news is a drag over the phone. Do me a solid?”
“What?”
“Got a box of cigarillos for Glenda. Can’t get over there for a few days, and I know she’s running low.”
“I’ll take them to her.”
A few moments later, Li’l Bit handed over the box of cigarillos. “Good Times, sweet. They’re her faves.”
Drake stared at the illustration of a classic convertible and palm tree on top of the box. Made him think of Yuri’s Benz parked in front of palm trees outside Topaz…and an old memory of Yuri smoking those stubby, exotic French cigarettes.
“Gitanes Mais,” he murmured, meeting Li’l Bit’s eyes. “Those were the kind of French cigarettes Yuri used to smoke. Strong, exotic tobacco rolled in yellow mais, corn, paper.”
“Wow, man, I almost forgot about that. Those things smelled bad.”
Drake smiled knowingly. “That’s the beauty of them. Distinct scent and look. Can’t buy them in the U.S.—have to buy them online or on the black market.”
“You’re having dirty thoughts, aren’t you?”
“Real dirty. I’m gonna pull a trash hit on Topaz, look for any Gitanes Mais in their garbage. Would be handy to run ‘em for DNA, which I would bet good money matches Yuri’s, then cross-reference those results to any DNA a certain arson investigator might find at my old place.”
“Told you this Tony dude could help you.”
“First, the trash hit. And some gumshoeing in my neighborhood. Then, and on my terms, I’ll touch base with this Tony dude.”
Li’l Bit grinned. “Aqua Man, you got your family’s strong-willed gene and then some.”
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING, Drake woke up to something wet lapping his face.
Hearsay.
He rubbed him behind his ear as the dog licked and nuzzled and wiggled his morning salutations. Drake gave him a reassuring pat. “It’s good to have you back, too.”
He fumbled on the floor for his phone, picked it up and squinted at the screen. Ten o’clock. Groggily, he figured out he’d slept fourteen hours, but he still felt tired. As he sat up, he winced at the black-light poster of Jimi Hendrix on the wall behind the couch. A man needed strong, black coffee before dealing with that much glowing neon paisley.
By eleven, Drake had showered and dressed. Yesterday afternoon he’d dropped by his mom’s, but she had been at her bowling league, and only his grandmother was home. She had been taking a nap, Maxine curled up at her feet, and although he had the urge to wake her up and give her a scolding about carousing at night in her power chair, he had instead pulled the light throw over her, left the cigarillos on her nightstand, and tiptoed out of the room.
On his way to Li’l Bit’s apartment, he’d bought some jeans, a pile of polo shirts in assorted colors, sneakers, dog food and a few other odds and ends. Then he picked up Hearsay from the vet hospital. He’d managed to feed himself and Hearsay, take the dog for a walk and watch some mindless TV before crashing.
Before dropping by his mom’s again, he needed to talk to Val and explain the investigative task he wanted them to conduct over the lunch hour.
Drake rubbed the dog behind the ears and stared into his big brown eyes. “Can’t take you with me today, buddy. You need to rest. It’s cool in here, you got food and water, and Li’l Bit will be back from his
senior-citizen dog ranch soon, and he’ll spoil you rotten.”
It wasn’t easy leaving.
“Love you, buddy,” he murmured, then stepped outside and shut the door behind him.
* * *
AFTER A HOT drive steeped in exhaust fumes, Drake hit downtown Vegas, a mix of courthouses, old-time casinos, tacky wedding chapels, restaurants and the odd retail shop. He used to see more shuttered businesses, their windows as dark as a Vegas pawnbroker’s heart, but big money was pouring back into the area, creating what one politician called a “dense urban core.” He hated to see vintage Las Vegas torn down, replaced by futuristic chrome-and-glass buildings that had no history, no soul.
When he reached Diamond Investigations, he pulled into a parking space in the back behind a tall wooden fence that separated the rear entrance from the street. He liked how Jayne hadn’t altered the architecture of the World War II-era bungalow office.
Old, dense ironwood trees lined the fence and the other side of the parking space, making it private. One thick trunk curved over the space, its blue-green leaves providing a mottled canopy against the blistering sun. Peterson Law, an adobe home renovated into law offices, sat at the far end of the asphalt. To any passersby, the parking lot appeared to be for the law firm only.
After locking the pickup, he headed to the far side of the bungalow. There, just as Jayne had texted, sat an old doghouse. Over the doorway, he could make out the hand-painted letters P, A, T and C. Patches?
He reached inside and felt under the roof. There. The duct tape. He peeled one end and retrieved the key. Smart to hide it there. No burglar in his right mind would reach into an unknown doghouse.
Batting at a pesky mosquito, he headed to the bungalow office. Weather report claimed possible light showers this afternoon, but the sky was an endless, washed-out blue. Not a single cloud.
Inside, the cool air swept over him, stinging cold against the sweat on his brow. He flipped on the light switch. There were two windows, one with a picturesque view of his rusting pickup, the other a view of traffic along Garces Avenue.
He made a mental note to keep those blinds closed.
Turning, he let out a low whistle. In the center of the room sat a massive cherrywood desk and a high-back, tufted-leather swivel chair. Pretentious, and even though he hated to admit it, damn impressive. Not the kind of look one found in private investigators’ offices, unless they had a lucrative business on the side, like neurosurgery.
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