by J. Kenner
“Right.” He wipes his palms down the front of his jeans. “So, you’re a reporter. And you’re talking to me, why?”
“I’m doing an article on my uncle. It’s a profile piece,” I explain, “and I’m trying to track down people he knew before he was killed.”
“Oh, wow. I can’t think of anyone I know who was killed. What’s his name?”
“Peter White, and I doubt you knew him. He died about a decade ago. But he did business here. I think he dealt with the previous owner, Mr. Cotton.”
“Right.” He nods slowly. “Oh, I’m Tom, by the way.” He points helpfully to his nametag. “My brother owns the place now, but I’m guessing you knew that.”
“I pulled up the public records online,” I say. “He bought it about six years ago, right? I was hoping that maybe he kept in touch with Mr. Cotton—Harold. Maybe they were friends, or maybe your brother had his contact information. I haven’t spent too much time looking, but nothing popped up in my initial search.”
“That’s probably because his name wasn’t really Cotton. It was Longfeld. Harold Longfeld. Cotton was his mother’s maiden name and I guess her family owned this land generations ago. He used the name because—well, honestly I don’t know why he used it, but he even signed legal documents as Cotton.”
“Thanks,” I say. “You just saved me a few hours of research.” I would have gotten there eventually, but this is why going out into the field is never a bad idea. “So why did he sell?”
“I didn’t pay much attention at the time. I was in college then and only working here on weekends, but my brother talked about it when I was home visiting family, so I got some of the story even though his wife hates when he talks about work. I mean, they fight and fight and—”
“That must have been rough,” I say, hoping to get him back on track. “What did he say about Mr. Cotton? Or, Mr. Longfeld, I mean.”
“Right, right. Yeah, so I guess Cotton was charged with embezzlement and money laundering. A whole big thing. Woulda been charged as Longfeld, though, so probably why you didn’t know about it. You didn’t know, did you?”
I shake my head. “Do you know any details?”
Tom shrugs. “Not really. Just that the charges didn’t stick. That’s when he was selling to my brother. I remember because he was afraid Longfeld would pull out of the deal, but he didn’t.” He shrugs. “Obviously.”
“Is Longfeld still around? Do you have an address?”
“Ain’t hard to find. Turns out he ended up in prison anyway.”
I frown. “What for?”
“DUI. He killed some lady. I got a friend in the DA’s office who told me the story. Knew there was a connection between Longfeld and Buddy. That’s my brother. Guess he figured I’d want to hear the gossip.”
I nod slowly. “There would have been a trial,” I say, thinking out loud.
Tom shakes his head. “No, he pled guilty. Practically on the spot my friend said. Seems he’d been giddy when he beat the financial charges. But when he killed that woman, something snapped. Didn’t even try to plea bargain. Said he deserved what he got, and not just because of that woman.”
“Not just because of that woman,” I repeat. “Any idea what he was talking about?”
“Personally, no. But I asked Buddy. He said there’d been rumors about Cotton running his business on the dirty side of things. Like he had ties to some big crime boss. The Lion? The Jackal? I can’t remember.”
My gut tightens. “The Wolf?”
He nods slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, I think that was it.” He shrugs. “Anyway, I remember thinking it all seemed very Sopranos.” Another shrug. “Not much help. Sorry.”
“No, actually that’s useful. I appreciate your time.” I pull Devlin’s list of Uncle Peter’s old contacts out of my bag. “Any chance you know any of these folks?”
He skims over it, but shakes his head. I’m disappointed, but not too much. After all, Tom gave me more than I’d expected, including Buddy’s contact information in case I want to talk to him, too.
I still have a few hours before dinner, so I hop back into Shelby, then open her up on the wide inland roads as I head back toward the picturesque side of town. When I reach Sunset Canyon Road, I floor it, then whip onto the tiny, winding streets that curve around and down like a twisting, meandering river until they hook up with Pacific Avenue right at the base of the hill that leads up to Brandy’s house. And, further, up to Devlin’s.
This is the long route, but I don’t care. Opening Shelby up on these roads is a pleasure. The wind in my face, the roar of her motor surrounding me. The danger of the sharp curves and narrow lanes. My blood pounds and my skin tingles, and it’s only when I make that final turn toward the Arts District that I realize why the feeling is so familiar. Because it’s the same rush I feel in Devlin’s arms. That heady sensation of being fully present and utterly alive.
Smiling, I turn to the right, putting the hill at my back and aiming Shelby toward the ocean. I miraculously find street parking with time left on the meter, and I gather my things and head to Brewski, figuring I’ll grab a coffee, go over my notes, and see if I can luck out and arrange to see Mr. Longfeld later this week.
I sip a latte as I work, and by the time I need to cross the street and head to the Cask & Barrel to meet Brandy and Lamar, I’ve not only organized my notes, I’ve got an actual appointment tomorrow with Mr. Longfeld. Turns out he served time for the DUI, just like Tom said, but he also got early release based on time served and good behavior.
Now he’s living in Los Angeles and working as a stock clerk in a mom-and-pop grocery store in Panorama City, deep in the San Fernando Valley. Since Lamar’s a Beverly Hills brat who thinks the Valley is one of the seven circles of hell, I plan to wait until we’re en route to tell him our destination.
The Cask & Barrel is on the same block as Brewski, but on the north side of the street. I forego the crosswalk and dodge cars as I aim myself in that direction. Although the restaurant wasn’t around when I was a kid, Brandy and I have been to it a couple of times since I’ve come back, and I’ve started to think of it as our go-to place.
I’m about to pull open the door when I hear Brandy squeal. I turn to find her flying toward me, her arms outstretched. She grabs me in a rib-cracking hug, towering over me by almost seven inches. I bite back a happy laugh. “You freak. What’s with the massive PDA? I just saw you this morning.”
“I’m excited we’re finally all three having drinks together. And dinner. Food to sop up the alcohol.” She waggles her brows and I have to laugh. Brandy is a very conservative drinker, so I’m both amused and suspicious.
“Does this anticipation of drinks and conversation have anything to do with Christopher? Did you change your mind? Do Lamar and I get to offer all sorts of unsolicited relationship advice, after all?”
She rolls her eyes. “What? I can’t be excited about hanging with my besties? Speaking of, where’s Lamar?”
I glance up and down the street. “He’s late.”
“Only by a minute. Or maybe he’s already in there.”
As if in response, both of our phones chime. I’m pulling mine out of my back pocket as she shakes her head, holding her phone toward me as she says, “Don’t bother. It’s to both of us.”
Table near the window. Get in here and quit gossiping about how handsome I am.
We both turn, find the window, and blow him a kiss. Then, laughing as if that was the funniest thing in the world, we turn back to the door. I’m about to pull it open when I see Christopher walking up the street, his long legs eating up the sidewalk and his golden hair gleaming in the streetlights that are coming on as dusk falls.
I glance at Brandy, who looks sheepish. “I hope you don’t mind. I told him we were going to dinner, and he really wanted to come.”
I like Christopher just fine. But that doesn’t mean I want him here tonight. This was supposed to be our time, and that thought must show on my face, because Brandy frowns, and
says, “Oh, dammit, I’m so sorry. I’ll tell him it’s not going to work out.”
“It’s just that Devlin’s evening freed up, but I told him not to come since it was only the three of us.”
“I’m an idiot. I should have asked. Of course he and I will see each other later. I’ll have him come to the house sometime tomorrow. Which reminds me, why aren’t you sleeping at Devlin’s? Your text said you’d be home tonight.” She frowns. “Everything was okay with you two this morning. It’s still all good, right?”
“Perfect,” I assure her.
“Okay, then.” She glances toward Christopher. “I’ll go take care of it.”
I reach out and take her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Thanks.” There’s a lot of reasons why Brandy is my best friend, not the least of which is because she’s a genuinely good person. Mostly it’s because she understands me. And despite all of my faults, she loves me.
“I’m going to go in and appease Lamar,” I say. “See you in there?”
“Order me a glass of red,” she says, then hurries off to meet Christopher, who’s paused a few feet away, probably picking up on the fact that we were discussing him.
I feel a little guilty, but not enough to invite him, so I push the feeling away and go inside. The place is bustling, and I wedge myself through to the table that Lamar’s managed to snag and pull out one of the chairs.
Lamar’s already ordered potato skins and bacon-wrapped shrimp, so we pig out on appetizers and wine, then order more when Brandy joins us. The conversation is easy and random, and I’m in a giddy mood that has nothing to do with the two glasses of Pinot Noir I’ve downed.
The waiter has just taken our dinner order when Lamar sits up straight, his brow furrowing as he leans forward, clearly trying to see something in the dark. When he sits back, I can feel the irritation coming off him in waves.
“What is it?” But even as I ask the question, I’m turning around in my seat. And in the same moment that Brandy mumbles oh, I see him in the doorway.
Devlin.
Chapter Eleven
I whip back around to look at Brandy. “I swear I didn’t invite him.” Even though that’s true, I still feel guilty for sending Christopher away, which is ridiculous and only makes me more irritated with Devlin.
Her eyes are wide as she nods. “Yeah, well, he’s still here.”
I scowl, because she’s right about that. “I’ll be right back,” I mutter as I push back from the table. I have a feeling it’s not a coincidence that he showed up here.
He’s heading our direction, his expression flat. I don’t know why he’s here, but I know he’s pissed.
Guess what? So am I.
I hurry to meet him and grab his elbow, noting that he’s practically vibrating with irritation. “What’s wrong? Why the hell are you here?”
“I have a few things I want to discuss with the detective.” His voice is tight. Clipped. And very scary. “No time like the present, right?”
I have absolutely no clue what’s going on in his head, but something has obviously pushed his buttons. He takes a step toward our table. I see Lamar flinch—just the slightest reaction, but I know my friend well, and he doesn’t look confused. On the contrary, he looks guilty.
Well, fuck.
I grab Devlin’s elbow and tug. “Outside,” I say, starting to steer him toward the door. He resists, though, his eyes hard. But not on me. No, he’s looking over my shoulder to Lamar, who’s manned up and is now staring back daggers.
I fight the urge to lash out at both of them. I don’t know what is going on, but I have no doubt they are both equally to blame.
“Outside,” I say again to Devlin. “And if you fight me or him, you know damn well that all of our pictures are going to end up in the news tomorrow. And I don’t mean the Laguna Leader,” I add, referring to the town’s tiny excuse for a newspaper.
When Devlin stands firm, I step even closer, breathing in the scent of musk and fury. “Do you really want this bullshit all over social media? I don’t know what’s going on, but you need to think about that. Now come with me, dammit. Let’s talk outside.”
I think he’s going to continue to ignore me. Then he nods, a curt, quick motion, before deliberately turning away from the table where Brandy remains sitting, staring at us, while Lamar stabs at his appetizer, pointedly not meeting my eyes.
I follow him outside, and as soon as we’re away from the door, I round on him. “What the fuck, Devlin?”
Rather than answer, he takes my elbow and tugs me further down the sidewalk, pushing me into the alcove of a closed lingerie store. My back is against the door, and he stands close enough that I can feel the fury coming off him in waves. I fight the urge to reach out and touch him, afraid that just that simple contact would be enough to spark an explosion.
Instead, I draw a breath and square my shoulders. He’s not the one with the right to be pissed—I am, and I lift my chin to look him square in the face. “I made Brandy send Christopher away because it was supposed to just be the three of us,” I continue, before he can speak. “And I really don’t appreciate—”
“This isn’t about you,” he snaps, cutting me off. “That son of a bitch has been digging around in my past, trying to get information on my military service record.”
“Oh.” I frown. I didn’t know this. And it pisses me off, too. I asked Lamar to find out about Ronan, but I damn sure didn’t expect him to take that as carte blanche. If Lamar was going to look into Devlin, he should have told me. And the idea that he’s poking around about my boyfriend behind my back doesn’t sit well with me at all.
“I didn’t know.” I don’t tell Devlin that I’m pissed, too. Right now, the thing to do is keep him calm, because I really don’t want him going back in there and confronting Lamar. Not in public. And definitely not until I’ve had a go at him first.
I reach for his hand, relieved when he returns the gentle pressure. “You found this out when you were talking to your connections,” I say. “Investigating who might have sent me that text.”
He nods.
“Did you find out anything? Has anyone been making inquiries about you?”
His expression is hard as stone as he says, “Only Lamar.”
I let that one roll off me, not just because I want more info, but because I want to give Devlin time to cool off. “What about the phone? Did you get any info about the number they texted from?”
For a second I think he’s going to argue and force this conversation to stay on Lamar. Then he says, “We recovered the phone. A burner. It had been used once—to send that text. No fingerprints, no identifying marks.”
“Oh.” I’m taken aback. That wasn’t something I’d expected. “How’d you manage that?”
“Are you familiar with Type-O SMS messages?”
I shake my head.
“In a nutshell, it’s a way to ping a phone and track the location. It only worked because whoever sent that message had fully charged the phone and hadn’t shut it off before tossing it. My people sent the message to the number and from there we were able to find the phone.”
“That’s easy.”
He laughs. “Not really. I left out the part about searching trashcans and gutters. It took most of the day, but the team found it.”
“I’m impressed,” I say, and I mean it. When Devlin took me to Vegas, I’d gotten a sense about how much more he and the foundation do than simply providing money to victims of organized crime, but this is the first time I realize that the DSF has an investigative arm as well. I’m not surprised—Devlin’s the kind of guy who jumps all in—but I am surprisingly moved, and I think it’s because that’s one more thing that he and I have in common. That need to dig for and find answers.
“So what now?” I ask, but I already know the answer.
“That phone’s a dead end.”
“Which means that we’re out of luck until I get another text.”
He nods, and I’m grateful he doesn
’t offer a platitude, suggesting that maybe another text won’t come. We both know it will.
He reaches for my hand and pulls me close. “There is one other lead,” he begins. “Whoever sent that text thinks there are facts about me you need to learn. Which means the texter is gathering information, probably intending to send you specific dirt with the next text.”
“But I already know how dirty you are.”
The words are intended to make him smile, but all I see is a shadow in his eyes, and I remember what he told me before—There will always be secrets between us. Things I’m not willing to talk about. Not ever.
I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter,” I say automatically, but I can’t help but wonder if it does.
“Other than me, who would do anything to protect you? Who’d challenge me—investigate me—if he thought you were going to disappear in the quicksand.”
For a moment I simply stare. Then I yank my hands out of his, shaking my head as I whisper, “No. No way did Lamar send that text. That’s not possible.”
“Oh, I think it is. He’s the—”
“No,” I say more firmly. “Absolutely not. There is no possible way.” I draw a deep breath and continue. “I trust Lamar with my life. And he didn’t even know we were back together last night. Even if he did, he’d never send that kind of a text. If he has a problem with you—which he does—he’d tell me straight out. Which he has.”
At that, Devlin smiles, albeit only a little. And it’s a cold, scary kind of smile.
“And there’s no point in Lamar sending a text, because there’s no need,” I continue. “He already has my ear. But you know what?” I add, taking his hands as I move closer. “I’ll tell you who we need to look at.”
His eyes narrow. “Who?”
“Just how well do you know your buddy Ronan?”
“No.”
That’s all he says. Just that one, tiny word. As if that’s enough to erase all my fears and suspicions. Not to mention all the hints that Ronan isn’t as clean as the driven snow.
