by J. Kenner
“You can’t possibly have expected me to be happy about that.”
“No, and it was Franklin’s call. If you want to consider it a punishment, I won’t correct you.”
“Fine. Fine. Do you have any actual good news for me?”
“Other than continuing to draw a paycheck?”
I rub my temple. “Funny. I was hoping we could talk about the Peter story. I’m still planning on writing it, and I’m going to publish it somewhere. So if—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. I talked with Franklin about that, too.”
“Oh.” I sit up straighter. “And?”
“We still want to run it. With a byline. We think having your name on it would be an asset. A personal essay with solid reporting to underscore the emotional parts. What do you say?”
What I want is to squeal with joy because it’s perfect, and I tell him so.
“Then keep me posted. I’d like it to run next month, but I have a feeling you’re going to need more time to dig.”
“You’re right about that. In fact, I’m about to head to the police station right now. I’m hoping Lamar can spare some time to help me with a couple of interviews.” I want to talk to Peter’s business contacts in Laguna Cortez. And I want to start tracing back to his contacts in LA.
“Detective Gage? The one who came to the office about a year ago?”
That summer, Lamar had flown to New York for a long theater weekend, and I’d taken him to the office to show off my editor and my desk with the same kind of glee that he shows his badge to elementary school kids.
“Give him my best,” Roger says.
“Will do,” I say, before ending the call with a fresh burst of enthusiasm. After all, not only am I no longer in employment limbo, but I’ve got a legitimate, work-related reason to do all the research that Devlin wants me to avoid.
Chapter Six
Lamar’s interrogating someone when I arrive. I’d called ahead to make sure he wasn’t in the field, and since I’m not only expected but also a bit of LCPD royalty, I’m escorted in and permitted to sit in observation watching Lamar do his thing.
It’s a nice perk, but all in all I’d rather my father—the former Chief of Police—not have been killed in the first place. His death had left me with Chief Randall and his wife Amy as my guardians during that nether period between Daddy’s murder and me bailing on my last year of high school.
I don’t think about that now, though. Instead, I entertain myself by watching Lamar, whose ability to shift seamlessly between good cop and bad cop makes him a formidable interrogator.
Today, he’s doing his rendition of a burnt-out bad cop, and the way he verbally lashes out at the suspect combined with his don’t-give-a-fuck posture is a dead-on perfect performance.
The subject in the chair seems to think so, too, because the more Lamar goes on, the twitchier he becomes. By the time an hour’s passed, the guy is ready to share all he knows about how his landlord set fire to the laundry room, apparently betting that an insurance payout was more likely than an arson conviction.
“Not bad,” I tell Lamar, after he enters the observation room to a round of applause from me and a handful of uniformed officers who’ve also been enjoying the show.
“By the way, where’s Endo?” I ask, after I’ve followed him back to his very cramped broom closet of an office.
I’ve only met his partner, Benton Endo, once. I’d flown from New York to San Diego to do research on a story, and the two had driven down to meet me for dinner.
“Thought I told you. I’m flying solo until he gets back. Paternity leave. Three months at home changing diapers.” He flashes a grin. “Poor bastard.”
“Don’t even. I bet you swing by at least twice a week so that the baby knows Uncle Lamar.”
“Damn,” he says. “It’s like you know me.”
“In all your annoying glory. Tell him and his wife congrats from me. And as for flying solo, it didn’t look like you needed him today at all. But I think I saw a bit of Our Suburbia when you were working that suspect.”
He winces. “Now you’re just being cruel.”
“Hardly,” I counter, my voice laced with a tease.
Our Suburbia was the most popular of the shows from Lamar’s days as a child actor. Not only had it been a big hit twenty years ago, but so had Lamar, who’d played the second youngest brother. I never watched the show as a kid, but after meeting Lamar, I’d made it a point to binge every episode.
“That show was pure art,” I add.
“Love you, too, Sherlock,” he says dryly.
“You’re the best, Watson,” I counter, both of us using the names we adopted for each other years ago. “Honestly,” I add, “I think we need to make a night of it. A DVD set of Lamar’s Greatest Hits, pizza, liters and liters of wine. You, me, Brandy, Devlin. It’ll be—”
I cut myself off when I see his face go hard. That’s when I remember I haven’t told him everything. I’ve been living on Ellie Time, and to me it feels as if Devlin and I have been back on an even keel for months. But the truth is that I was coming to terms with never seeing him again just a few days ago, and it’s only been one night since I’ve wrapped my head around the inescapable truth that I not only believe in him, but I’m committed to working on us.
Lamar, however, has been privy to none of that.
Which is why I sit, then nod for him to do the same. “It’s all good,” I say. “We’re back together.”
“What part of that is good?”
“Lamar—don’t.”
He sucks in air through his nose, then runs his hand over his close-shaved hair. When we first met, he’d told me that in the three years between his TV career and becoming a cop, he’d worn dreads. Then a mugger in San Francisco had grabbed his hair, beat the shit out of him, and stolen his wallet.
That horrific encounter had inspired him to not only cut off the dreads, but pursue the law enforcement career that he’d been thinking about ever since he’d played a teen gang member in a movie. He once told me it was total shit as a film, but life-changing in its inspiration.
I’d thought the story was great—and resolved to always wear my hair up when I was in uniform. Just in case the bad guys got any ideas.
Now, he studies me, his eyes narrowing. “You’re sure?” he presses. “This is what you want? Devlin is who you want?”
“Yes,” I say, and that single word is the product of great restraint. I want to tell him everything, but of course I can’t.
Lamar sees the projection of a man that Devlin has meticulously built over the last five or so years. A reclusive man with billions to his name who started a charitable foundation. A hard, private man known to sleep around, but eschew any long-term commitments. A man who supports his community, sure. But not the kind of guy you want your best friend hooking up with. I get that.
“I just worry,” he says.
“You don’t have to,” I counter. “And we don’t need to talk about it, either. I’m not here for relationship counseling.” I shift in my chair. “Are you still free to come with me on these interviews?” When we’d talked earlier, his day had been wide open.
He winces. “Sorry, Sherlock. I can do one in town, but if you still want to drive to LA, I’ll have to pass. Turns out I’ve got a witness coming in a couple of hours.”
I’m disappointed, but I nod. I’d hoped to poke around in Peter’s life before my mom’s death, trying to get a sense of what he had his hands in even before he moved down to Laguna Cortez to help my dad raise me.
But there’s plenty to learn about Peter during his Laguna Cortez years. And, besides, I have another errand I want to squeeze in today. So I nod and assure Lamar that’s fine.
“Tomorrow should work,” he tells me. “I’ve got the day off, and I’m willing to give up my leisure time for you. Assuming the magazine’s paying for lunch.”
“I think it’s the least The Spall can do for both of us,” I assure him.
I pause a
s we head out for today’s interview, a new thought hitting me. Lamar looks back over his shoulder, his brow raised in question.
“Problem?”
I shake my head. “Nothing. Something just occurred to me. But—never mind.”
“Seriously? You’re going to leave it at that? You know that only makes me more curious.”
I laugh. “It’s nothing. Probably nothing.” I draw a breath, buying time. I should make something up. I shouldn’t ask what I’m thinking about asking.
But, of course, I do. “Okay, here it is. How well do you know Ronan Thorne? You told me you met him at one of the DSF functions, but have you guys hung out? Or do you just bump into each other now and then?”
His brow furrows, but he takes the question in stride. “Honestly, I barely know him. He’s friends with Saint, though.” He cocks his head as he looks at me. “Not sure what kind of a man that makes him.”
“Give it a rest. And while you’re resting, could you look into him for me?”
He pauses as we reach the plaza outside the LCPD. “Why? What’s going on?”
No way am I telling Lamar about the text and the threat. It would worry him too much, and I don’t want him poking around, learning things about Devlin that neither Devlin nor I are ready to share. So instead I tell him the truth—just not the whole truth. “He basically told me that I shouldn’t be with Devlin,” I say. “And he was in Vegas when I went on that trip with Devlin, too. Didn’t seem too keen to see me there.”
“Apparently Ronan and I have more in common than I thought.”
“Lamar...” I’m sure he can hear the frustration in my voice. He and Brandy are my best friends. I want him to get along with the man I love.
“Fine, fine. What is it you’re looking for?”
“He probably just rubs me the wrong way,” I admit. “But I can’t get over the feeling that he’s hiding something. I want to know what it is.”
When Ronan had first suggested I back off, I thought he was trying to protect Devlin’s heart. But then a horrific criminal named Lorenzo Bell was assassinated in Vegas when Devlin and I were in town, shot at point blank range by an unknown assailant.
Ronan wasn’t supposed to be there, and yet Bell had been killed the same night Ronan coincidentally arrived in town. Now, I can’t shake the suspicion that Ronan wanted to sabotage my relationship with Devlin so that a nosy reporter wouldn’t be poking around.
That, however, isn’t something I’m willing to share with Lamar. Not without proof. So all I say is, “Will you?”
“What am I looking for?”
“I don’t know. Anything that makes your brows rise. Like that,” I add as his brows go up.
He smirks, then schools his face back to stern. “That’s a pretty broad assignment. But I suppose I could do a basic background check and see if that leads anywhere. Honestly, I like the guy. I don’t think I’ll find anything.”
I shrug. “If you don’t, that’s great. It’s not as if I’m hoping to learn that Devlin’s closest friend is dirty.”
That’s the truth. Ronan might rub me the wrong way, but Devlin has been betrayed enough. I don’t want Ronan to be a member of that small but dangerous club. But I do want answers.
I’m not worried about Lamar stumbling across Devlin’s connection to the Wolf. That’s buried deep. And although Devlin has told me that Ronan knows the truth about Devlin’s parentage, I’m sure there’s no straight link between Ronan and The Wolf. After all, Ronan and Devlin met in the military, and that was after Devlin had broken with his dad.
Because I’m certain of that, I feel no guilt at all.
Or, at least, not much.
“So will you look?”
He lifts his hands as if in surrender. “I guess I have to.”
I grin, understanding. Years ago, we promised to always have each other’s backs. “Love ya, Watson.”
“Back at you, Sherlock.”
That settled, we head toward the SeaSide Inn. We decide to walk, even though it’s quite a trek. But the day is beautiful, and if time gets tight, he can always take an Uber back to the station.
“What do you think you’re going to learn?” He poses the question between the various restaurant choices I’m throwing out for tomorrow.
“You mean now? At the hotel?” Peter used to own the inn, and I explain that I’m hoping the current owner—who was the manager back when I was a kid—might know something about Peter’s less-than-legitimate activities.
“If he does, it’s probably because he was dirty, too. In which case, he won’t say a word.”
“Maybe,” I concede. “But I have to ask the questions. You know how it works. You don’t have a lead until you have a lead. Right now, I’m sifting through sand.”
“Anything in your mom’s diaries?”
“About the hotel? No, but there wouldn’t be. Peter didn’t move here until after Mom died. He came to help Dad take care of me.”
“Right,” Lamar said. “So not much use for this article, huh?”
“Maybe more than I expected.” I say, realizing I never told him about the journal entry I’d found when Devlin and I were in Vegas. “My mom wrote that she was afraid Peter was mixed up with the kind of people a cop’s wife really shouldn’t know about.”
“You think Peter was already working for The Wolf? Even back then?”
I nod. “And there’s another entry I found from right before she died. Peter was upset with her. I need to skim back to see if I can find out why, but my guess—”
“—is that she was prodding her brother to get the fuck away from The Wolf.”
I grimace and nod. “Or out of the business. I don’t know if she ever knew specifically about The Wolf.” I pause on the sidewalk, forcing Lamar to take a step backward.
“What?”
“It just doesn’t make sense. My mom had a great family. Small, yeah. And her parents died young, but still great.” All of my grandparents are gone, actually, taken by various illnesses instead of the unexpected tragedy of my mom and dad, but leaving me just as alone. “I mean, Peter was comfortable. And I know he had decent money because he and Mom both inherited when their dad died. So why shift out of that comfortable world into the dangerous life that killed him?”
“Can’t answer that, but I see it all the time. Maybe it started as thrill seeking and he got in over his head. Maybe he felt helpless and wanted power. Maybe he was simply wired wrong.”
I shake my head. “Not the last. He was good to me. Solid. He had to put up with a grieving teenager, and he rose to the task. He loved me, but he still did all that stuff. And I’m afraid—”
“What?”
“I’m afraid of the way I’m going to feel about him once I know the whole truth.”
He takes my hand and squeezes it. “No matter what, he was still a man who loved you. Flawed, maybe. Screwed up, probably. But he was there when you needed him.”
And that, I think, is what I have to hold on to.
Chapter Seven
The SeaSide Inn sits on the Pacific Coast Highway almost directly across from where the Devlin Saint Foundation now stands. Back when Uncle Peter used to own the Inn, the DSF’s location was a weed-covered vacant lot that folks used for illegal beach parking.
Peter and I often walked here from his house, one of the few in Laguna Cortez that is on the ocean side of the highway. I even helped him fix up the Inn. Or, at least, I painted a few walls. Mostly, he was giving me busy work, as the actual contractors did the heavy lifting. But I remember feeling important, and I’ve always liked this cute little hotel.
The part that faces the highway isn’t anything particularly special. It’s welcoming, sure, but mostly functional with a circular driveway and a porte-cochere that allows guests to valet park without blocking traffic on the Coast Highway. Once inside though, the hotel has a charming Mediterranean vibe. It’s designed as a square, with the four sides comprising the halls leading to the various rooms.
The
middle of the square is a sunny atrium, with a small pool, outdoor seating, and a full-service bar that draws both hotel guests and locals.
The reception desk is the first thing we see when we walk through the main glass doors. When I was young, the manager was a man named Taggart. I never knew his first name, and though I could have looked it up before making this trip, I didn’t bother. He’s not at the front desk right now, though it wouldn’t be unusual for him to still be working here. After Uncle Peter’s death, I learned that he bought the hotel, and I don’t see any reason why he would have sold it. After all, tourism in Laguna Cortez is still going strong.
It makes sense that he wouldn’t be at the front desk though. He’s the owner now not the manager, and the woman I see there is about my age. I glance at Lamar, who takes the hint and approaches first. After all, he’s deliciously good-looking, and I’m all for smoothing the way with a witness. She looks up as we approach and smiles in greeting.
“Are you checking in?” She has deep set eyes, light brown skin, and a hint of an accent. Central Mexico, I think, though I’m not positive. She wears a white shirt under a blue blazer with a gold nametag that says, Reggie. Her hair brushes her shoulders. It’s completely straight, dark brown accented with streaks of cobalt blue. She has a wide and friendly smile and I notice that she wears no rings. Single then. Maybe the Lamar move will turn out to be the right one.
“We were hoping to speak to Mr. Taggart,” Lamar says. “He’s the owner, I believe?”
“Is there a problem? I’m the manager.”
“No problem. We were hoping to ask him a few questions about the man he bought the hotel from.”
Her attention shifts from Lamar to me, and I can’t help but think that her reaction is surprise. “Oh,” she says. “Mateo Taggart is my father. But he’s not here. He had a stroke about three years ago. He lives in a nursing home now.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Lamar says. “Do you think we could visit him there?”
“You could. But I’m afraid he’s not himself. The odds that he would remember anything from that long ago—or for that matter be able to carry on a coherent conversation with you—are slim.”
