by J. Kenner
That’s when it occurs to me that no one else in this room knows what I do—that the man who is the face of this organization is a fiction. And that with a single word, I could bring this entire house of cards tumbling down.
Chapter Fifteen
I’d intended to spend Saturday with Brandy, but after one of my friends from my cop days returns my call, I end up in Santa Monica having lunch with Millicent Kittridge and talking about The Wolf.
“How did I not know any of this?” Millie asks after I give her the rundown of my uncle, Ricky Mercado, and the bastard crime lord I blame for it all.
I lift a shoulder. “Probably because I never told you about Peter. And I just found out about The Wolf connection yesterday.”
“So how can I help?” Even on the weekend, she’s impeccably dressed in slacks, a silk shirt, and a black blazer.
“Honestly, I’m not sure. But you’re working in organized crime, right? Mostly drug cases?” A cop before she went to law school, Millie now works for the US Attorney’s office in Los Angeles.
“Yeah, but The Wolf was before my time.”
“I’m trying to track down one of his lieutenants.”
“Which one?”
“Any lieutenant, actually. I need a jumping off point for building a picture in my mind of The Wolf. Eventually I want to figure out how the threads lead to my uncle. I’ve already asked staff at The Spall to pull every article they can find and send them to me. But—”
“You want a sit-down,” she interrupts. “I get it. What about Mercado’s cellmate? The one who told Chief Randall about how Mercado took the fall for the real killer?”
I shake my head. “That was my first idea. But he had nothing to do with The Wolf’s organization. That was just luck of the cellmate draw. Apparently, Mercado was a chatty kind of guy.”
She nods slowly. “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll text my boss today.”
“Saturday?”
She shrugs. “Justice never sleeps.”
“Touché.”
The rest of the lunch is catch-up, including a few questions about how Lamar is doing. I tell her she should give him a call, then bite back a smile at the thought that my friend is suddenly being inundated by female attention. That’s okay. I figure Tracy and Millie can battle it out, and either way, Lamar will be the winner.
I’m back in Shelby and trying to remember how to get to the 405 when my phone rings. It’s Roger, and I consider ignoring it. Then I cringe under a wave of guilt, so I connect the call.
“Sorry I missed you the other night,” he says.
“No, my bad. I was only calling to check in and didn’t even think about the time difference. Listen, I can’t talk. I’m in Shelby with the top down.”
Honestly, I have my ear buds in and can hear him fine, but I’m not emotionally ready to tell him what I’ve learned about Peter.
“Tell her I said hi,” he says, and I laugh. Since I can’t afford parking in the city, Roger keeps Shelby garaged for me at his house in Rockland County. He doesn’t drive her—no one does but me—but I know he’s hoping that I’ll eventually break that rule in his favor.
“I’ll give her your best,” I promise. “Want me to call you tonight and update you on the profile?”
“No, no, kid. I’m not checking up on you. I need you to cover something. Just for the website. LA-based, so you’re practically on site. We’ll run it tomorrow.”
“Actually, I am on site. I just had lunch up here with a friend. What’s up?”
“That shooting this morning. Terrance Myers.”
“Wait. What shooting?” Myers is a wealthier-than-sin prick who’d captured and tortured almost two dozen children in his Hollywood Hills mansion over a two-year span. Several died and the ones who survived will undoubtedly be messed up for life. He’d been the subject of a three-day manhunt before he was finally captured, then tried and convicted. And yesterday morning, he was released, his appeal granted because of a goddamn technicality.
“I emailed you the wire reports. Someone took him out early this morning at an executive airport as he was getting on a private plane for Mexico. Not surprisingly, the guy was getting the hell out of the country. The interesting thing is, his itinerary hadn’t been announced, presumably because he feared for his safety.”
“Someone inside law enforcement leaked his whereabouts. That’s kind of whack.”
“It’s very whack.”
“And the story’s only for the website?”
“Unless you can identify the mystery sniper, then you can have the cover.”
“Not likely.” I take a breath. “There really aren’t any leads on the shooter?”
“If there are, the LAPD isn’t releasing them. But they might at the press conference. That’s what I want you to cover. It’s at three today at the LAPD headquarters.”
“I should be able to get there in plenty of time.”
“I was hoping with your connections you might be able to arrange an interview with someone from the LAPD or the DA’s office. This won’t be a major piece for us—everyone’s covering it—but I do want some amount of unique content in the story before it posts.”
My connections. Roger seems to think all cops are best buds for life and that we all know each other. I don’t bother trying to explain my pitiful lack of connections now, though. Instead, I just say, “On it,” then end the call.
I call Lamar as I mentally reroute toward downtown. He answers on the first ring, and after I explain the situation, he promises to ask around for someone I can hit up to interview, but he doesn’t sound optimistic. Apparently the only two cops he’s close to in LA are on vacation, so I’m not holding my breath.
The odds of me knowing anyone are slim, but I keep my eyes open as I enter the LAPD’s newsroom, just in case I see someone my dad used to know or an old friend from Irvine who’s transferred to the big city.
But by the time the room is full and the Deputy Chief of Police steps up to the podium, I’ve seen zero familiar faces.
All that changes when someone drops into the empty seat next to me.
I turn, and my breath catches in my throat.
Devlin.
“What are you doing here?”
He puts a finger to his lips as Deputy Chief Rayborn begins talking, and I lean back in my seat in frustration. Rayborn reads from a prepared statement, outlining how, at approximately six-fifteen this morning, an assassin took out Terrance Myers with a single shot to the head as he prepared to board a private jet to Mexico.
“At this time, we’ve determined that the shot originated from the Hastings Bank Building, an eight-story building approximately one mile from where Myers was killed.”
“Wow,” I say, leaning over to Devlin. “That’s a seriously impressive shot.”
He raises a brow, then points at the podium, and I shut up, duly chastised. But as a girl whose dad took her to an indoor range practically from diapers, I truly am impressed. Of course, military marksmen have made much longer shots. But with all the factors that go into hitting a long-range target—wind, the curvature of the earth, and even the Coriolis effect—any successful shot from over a mile requires serious skill and training. Which makes me think the shooter was military. Or at least had paramilitary training.
“—no identification,” the Deputy Chief continues, as I realize I’d zoned out. “What we do know is that the shooter rappelled down the side of the building in a pair of window washer coveralls using his own line.”
A murmur rises from the audience. This son-of-a-bitch was not only a good shot, he was seriously ballsy. I can’t condone the murder, but I definitely admire the skill.
“It is believed he left the scene in a car driven by a co-conspirator. The actual window washing team wasn’t due on site for another hour.”
He gives a few more statistics on the caliber of the bullet and the ballistic team’s initial assessment as to the weapon used, then opens the floor for questions. As he does, Devlin
leaves, and while I consider following, I stay behind, my hand raised to ask about how the perp got away and if the rappelling line was left behind.
“No,” the Deputy Chief says after I ask. “And to anticipate the follow-up, we believe he anchored the rope to the handle of a locked roof access door, then made the descent using a double-line method.”
I nod, picturing it in my mind. A ten-story building is about a hundred feet tall, so the bank would be about twenty feet less. A typical rappelling rope is two hundred feet. Thread that through the handle to use as an anchor, hold both sides, and go down. Once his feet were on the ground, he’d pull the rope through, gather it up, and take off.
Faster to leave it, but that potentially leaves evidence.
Of course, he still might have left evidence. Fibers from the rope, and my hand goes up again to ask if the forensic team has found such residue.
Ultimately, I don’t get my answer—the team is still working the area—but the Deputy Chief gives the usual song and dance about being on the case. I’ve seen enough press conferences like this to know that’s not true. They have nothing. And even with the fibers, they’ll have nothing. Likely the perp bought the rope at someplace like REI with hundreds of similar ropes sold every day, making it virtually untraceable.
There are a few more questions and then the press conference wraps. I stand and turn, then realize with a frown that I’m searching out Devlin. But I don’t see him anywhere.
Annoyed with myself, I pull my phone out of my satchel and check to see if Lamar has texted. He has, and he’d been right. No contacts for me. Which means that my article is going to be boring as shit, with exactly the same information as every other reporter sitting in this room today.
The reality galls me, and I head toward the exit hoping that inspiration will drop from the sky. Maybe Millie knows someone I could interview about sniper school…?
I’m considering that possibility when I enter the hallway and almost barrel into Devlin, who grabs my arm to steady me. I yank it back. Not because I’m annoyed at being helped, but because I’m annoyed at myself. At my own intense reaction to the sudden and unexpected touch.
“Why are you here?” I demand, with more accusation in my voice than I intend. I’d planned to be calm and cool the next time I saw him. Now I feel like I’ve been robbed of the chance to show him I don’t give a fuck.
“The DSF has done a lot of work supporting therapy and rehabilitation for Myers’ victims,” he tells me. “To be honest, I came to celebrate the bastard’s demise.”
“Celebrate? Somebody took the law into their own hands. You can’t just do that.”
He takes my elbow and steers us around a corner, out of the way of the crowd. “That guy was a monster. He killed children and destroyed the ones who survived. Trust me. I’ve seen the reports. I’ve met the kids. Not one of those children will ever fully recover from what that scum did to them. As far as I’m concerned, the shooter did the world a favor.”
I can’t deny the passion in his voice—or the emotional resonance of what he says. But I can deny the conclusion. “Sorry, but former cop here, and vigilantism just doesn’t fly.”
“I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree.”
“I guess so.” I lean against the wall my arms crossed over my chest, and when I look up at his face, the bastard’s smiling. “What?”
He takes a step closer, so he’s only inches away. “You truly are your father’s daughter.”
I draw in a breath, suddenly hyperaware of his proximity. “You never knew my dad.”
“Maybe not.” His voice is flat, and try as I might, I can’t read even a hint of emotion in it. Alex Leto always had a knack for control, but Devlin Saint has mastered it. He takes a single step closer, and the air crackles between us. “But I know you.”
“This conversation is over.” I’m trying for firm, but the words come out shaky. Annoyed, I shove past him and hurry back to the main hallway.
I don’t like running away from him or feeling weak. But it’s a hell of a lot better than succumbing to that damn sizzle I feel under my skin every time he’s near.
I turn into the ladies’ room, clutch the edge of the counter, then stare at myself in the mirror. I’m here on a job, dammit. I’m a former cop and an investigative reporter and I do not turn to mush on a dime.
Except maybe I do.
I let out a frustrated breath as reality hits me. Because I’ve just walked away from a rock solid story angle. The kind that might get me a spread in the magazine and not just a bullshit corner of the website.
Shit.
“Guess I need him after all,” I tell my reflection, then head back out to track Devlin down again.
When I find him, he’s standing in the building’s lobby talking with Ronan Thorne, who catches my eye and waves me over.
“You here to celebrate, too?”
“Pardon?”
The corner of Devlin’s mouth curves up, the way I’d seen Alex’s do so many times before, and I hug myself as he explains. “I told her I was thrilled Myers is dead. Apparently, Ms. Holmes is not a fan of whoever took the law into their own hands.”
“Ah,” Thorne says. ”No, I worked with local law enforcement on the raid, so I thought I’d pop in since I was coming into town today anyway.”
“Oh? What for?” I wave away the question. “Sorry. Reporter habit.”
He laughs as he catches Devlin’s eye. “No worries. I had a few loose ends to wrap up this morning.”
I’m about to ask what he means—and if the work is for the DSF—when Devlin says, “Ronan could be a source. Talk about the raid. Describe what it was like for the kids. What the first responders saw. Makes for another angle.”
“It does,” I agree, surprised by the suggestion. “Thank you.”
“It’s an important story.”
“It is. In fact, I was going to ask if you could tell me about what the DSF is doing. You mentioned helping the kids.”
He and Ronan exchange glances, then Devlin nods. “I can do that.”
Ronan digs into the back pocket of his jeans and pulls out a wallet. He rifles through, then hands me a business card. As he does, I notice a raw, red welt on his right palm.
“Ouch. What happened?”
“Stupidity,” he says with a shrug. “Listen, I’m fine with talking, too. But I have a meeting right now. If it won’t make you file your story too late, give me a call.”
“I don’t have to file until midnight, so I will.” I look between the two of them. “I appreciate this.”
“People hear about it and know it’s a tragedy,” Devlin says. “But they can’t truly grasp the horror that man perpetrated unless it’s happened to them. Sharing more than just cold hard facts gets them one step closer.”
“I agree.”
He cocks his head toward the exit. “Come on. I’ve got someone else you can talk to. Thorne, we’ll talk later. And thanks for your help yesterday.”
“Anytime, man. You know I’ve got your back.”
“Always.”
They fist bump, which since they’re both in suits, amuses me more than it should.
“What?” Devlin asks, looking at me sideways.
“Not a thing.” I try to keep the amusement out of my voice.
He grins, and it’s a nice moment, because I know that he understands exactly what I’m thinking. Just like he always did before.
Then he looks away, and just like that, the connection snaps. And although I know I should be glad, I can’t help but feel like I’ve lost something crucial.
He’s already halfway to the exterior door, and I hurry to catch up with him.
I push through onto the plaza just in time to see a skinny little blonde-haired nymph race across the tiles to Devlin and launch herself at him. She wraps her arms around him and giggles as he swings her up. At the same time, another girl—an older version of the little one—comes forward and meets Devlin’s high five.
“Mom�
��s over there,” she says, nodding to a fragile-looking woman sitting on a stone bench, her eyes swollen from what must be a now-staunched flow of tears.
Devlin moves to her, and I follow, understanding that he’s invited me to this reunion even though I have no idea what’s going on.
He sits next to the woman, the little girl still clinging like a leech. “I didn’t see you in there,” he says.
“I thought I could.” She shakes her head. “Couldn’t make it through the door.” She grabs his hand. “But I’m so glad he’s dead. I can’t—” She scrunches her lips together, her face tight with the effort to hold back tears.
“My friend Ellie is a reporter. She’s doing a piece on Myers’ death. I thought it would help people to understand if they know what Sue—what you all—went through. Will you talk to her?”
Closer to her, I see that she’s not as fragile as I thought. She has a strong face and sharp eyes, and after a moment’s consideration, she turns to me and gives me one simple nod.
“Thank you,” I say, even though the words feel like an intrusion.
“I—well, I came because of Sue.” The little girl lifts her head from Devlin’s shoulder at the sound of her name.
“Come on with me,” the older girl says. “I bet you need to go potty.”
“I don’t,” the girl says.
“Well, I do. Keep me company?”
Sue nods, then takes the girl’s hand. Her sister, I’m guessing.
The woman watches until they’re inside, then flashes a wavering smile at me. “I’m Laura,” she says. “Laura Tarlton.”
“Ellie,” I say, even though Devlin’s already told her that. “Nice to meet you. Is it okay if I use my phone to record this?”
She nods.
“What did you mean that you came for Sue? Was she—I mean, did Myers—” I cut myself off, unable to finish the horrible thought.
Laura nods, her body stiff as she grabs Devlin’s hand and squeezes. “Six months he had her. I thought she was dead.” Tears trickle down her face.
“Are you sure you want—” I begin, but she nods.
