by J. Kenner
Beside me, Lamar shifts in his seat. “You’re going soft, Sherlock.”
I stiffen, because that is not how I want to be thought of. But then I relax, because it’s not true. Not about everything, anyway. But where Devlin is concerned?
“Yeah,” I whisper, with just the hint of a smile. “I think maybe I am.”
Harold Longfeld, the former owner of Cotton Building Supply, lives in a studio apartment that used to be a storage shed behind the tiny grocery store where he works as a stock clerk. It has one window and a chemical toilet, and after taking three breaths, I suggest that Lamar and I buy him a cup of coffee at the diner we saw one block over.
He counters with a whiskey at the bar two doors down, and we readily agree.
“Vile, I know,” he says once we’re settled at a small table. “Where I’m living, I mean. But I deserve it. Life I led…” He trails off with a shake of his head. “I never wanted to hurt that woman, but what I did—running her down, taking her from her family—that changed me.”
“I imagine it would,” I say softly. I expect him to order coffee, considering he’s talking about the woman he killed while driving under the influence, but he orders a whiskey. Under the circumstances, I order a Diet Coke. Lamar, who I’m sure is thinking about bonding with the guy, gets a beer.
Lamar pulled the information on Longfeld for me, and I skimmed over it yesterday, but there wasn’t much there that I didn’t already know. Longfeld had been charged with various financial crimes, but they hadn’t stuck. Then he’d killed a woman, and everything changed for him. He’d regretted her death, but even more, he’d regretted the life he’d led before.
According to a memo Lamar found from the Parole Board, he’d started going to the religious services offered to inmates. And not, according to the board member, simply because that meant a weekly change of scenery in the chapel. Apparently Mr. Longfeld had become a believer, even going so far as to teach Sunday school classes to the other inmates, along with remedial reading and math.
There’d been no mention of my uncle in the file, and Lamar said he’d dug around in the evidence room and found nothing there, either.
But if Peter was as deep with The Wolf as we think he was, then surely I can track down some sort of proof that Peter was dirty. I know it’s probably wishful thinking, but I have a feeling that Longfeld was dialed in. And that maybe, just maybe, his remorse and new perspective will push him to reveal whatever secrets he might hold.
I take a sip of my soda, then offer him what I hope is a friendly smile. “I appreciate you talking to me. I told you I’m writing an article about Peter, but it’s not a typical news story. He was my uncle, and I want to dig deep into how he got involved in crime. Unlike you, I’m not sure he ever felt bad about what he did. Maybe he would have gotten there eventually, but we’ll never know. Can you tell me? Did you know he worked for the Wolf? Do you know anything about how he got involved with that world?”
“I know he sat at The Wolf’s right hand,” Longfeld says, and I try very hard not to react even though I’m positively giddy at having tracked down a solid source. “Told me they’d been friends for years. Never told me he was screwing Lopez—and thank God for that. I wouldn’t have wanted to hear him say it. That would have put a target on my back. Me knowing it was dangerous enough.”
“How did you know if he didn’t tell you?”
Longfeld scoffs. “I was laundering hundreds of thousands for your uncle. That’s not a mindless job. I knew what I was doing. Where the money was coming from, and where it was going to.” He lifts his glass, signaling the waiter to bring another, then downs the watery dregs. “You’re not gonna like what I have to say, but you asked, and I don’t see no reason not to tell. You good with that?”
I glance at Lamar and find support in his eyes. Then I nod. “Yeah,” I say. “It’s all good.”
“Your uncle liked what he did. He liked the danger of it. Daniel Lopez was his friend, sure, but Peter liked pulling something over on him. He liked looking at the devil and thinking he’d won.”
My mouth goes dry and my hands are tight on my glass. So tight I have to make a conscious effort to loosen my grip or else risk shattering the glass. He’s describing me. Not the illegal stuff, of course. But the dance with the devil. That thrill that comes from doing something dangerous and surviving.
I’d always thought it was survivor’s guilt, and considering the life I’ve led and everyone I’ve lost, that makes sense. But now I wonder if part of it’s in my blood, too. If there’s a bit of Peter in me. More than simply the familial line, but some real shadow of the man he was.
Considering everything I’m learning about him, I’m not sure I like that possibility.
I do my best to mask my feelings, and since Longfeld keeps on talking, I guess I’m doing a reasonably good job. Lamar, however, knows me well, and when he presses his large hand against my middle back, I say a silent thank you to the universe for finding me such a good friend.
“As for your uncle not having the chance to make my choices,” Longfeld says, “I gotta say you’re wrong there.”
I shake my head, frowning. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what you mean?”
“To repent. He had the chance years before he was killed. But he didn’t do a damn thing different.”
My brow furrows in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“Your mom.” His voice is flat and even, and my stomach twists in anticipation of his words. “Peter stole from The Wolf, and The Wolf gave him a warning. Do it again, and Peter would pay the price.” His shoulders sagged. “He paid, all right.”
I glance at Lamar, who looks as befuddled as me. “I don’t understand. How did he pay?”
Longfeld’s eyes meet mine. “You really don’t know? The Wolf had your mom killed in retaliation.”
Chapter Eighteen
I’m too numb, so Lamar takes Shelby’s wheel on the way home.
I close my eyes and lean back, snuggling into the leather seat as I let my thoughts drift over me in some perverse form of meditation. Except that’s the wrong word, because meditation suggests peace and calm. There’s nothing peaceful about the way I feel.
On the contrary, I’m shell-shocked. Raw and empty and ripped apart from the inside out. And as the traffic sounds whip by us, I get lost in my own storm of emotions, everything from anger to loss to betrayal. And, yes, to love. Because that’s the worst of it, isn’t it? The fact that I’d loved my uncle, really and truly loved him. And yet he did this. He’d put one foot in front of the other, knowing perfectly well that the path he was walking would end with my mother in a coffin.
Maybe he hadn’t actually done it to me—hell, odds were he hadn’t even thought of me. For that matter, he probably hadn’t even thought of my mother.
But wasn’t that the point? He’d thought only of himself, and in doing so, he’d left a trail of destruction behind him. A trail that culminated now in my broken heart.
There’s a wreck on the 5 and traffic is a nightmare, which just adds to my malaise. I try to sleep in the car, and maybe I even succeed a little. But I don’t think so, because the reason I wanted to sleep was so that when I woke up it would all be over, and I’d be left with nothing more than a bad dream.
But that’s not the case. When we get to Laguna Cortez, everything is as real as it was when we left Los Angeles. And though I smile at Lamar and thank him for driving and let him put an arm around my shoulder as he leads me to the door, I know that he can see the pain as well.
And that he feels as helpless to fix me as I do.
“I’m okay,” I lie when we reach the front door. “Really.”
“I’m sure you are, but that doesn’t mean I’m leaving you alone until you’re settled inside.” He presses a gentle kiss to my forehead, then releases me and punches Brandy’s code into the keypad. I hear the familiar whirr of the lock, then the scrape of the hinges as he pushes the door open. Such familiar sounds in a world that doesn�
�t seem familiar anymore.
He reaches for my hand, as if he’s leading a child over the threshold. That’s how I feel, too. Young and unsure and scared and lost. I don’t like feeling this way. It doesn’t seem like me, and yet maybe it is. Maybe I’ve finally reached that point where all the shit in my life bearing down is too much. Maybe it’s finally broken me.
“I’m really okay,” I lie again. He’s my best friend, but I wish he’d go. All I want to do is curl up in a ball.
Except even that’s not true. What I really want to do is curl up next to Devlin, letting him hold me while I sleep. Because if I can do that, maybe I’ll wake up stronger simply by virtue of having him near.
But he’s in another state, and while I love Lamar, it’s not the same.
I manage a smile, and I’m about to kiss his cheek and push him out the door when I see a shadow move across the floor of the entryway. I freeze, because I didn’t realize anyone else was home, then cry out in relief when I see that it’s Devlin.
I don’t realize I’m moving until I’m in his arms and he’s holding me. It’s only then that the dam breaks, and before I know it, tears are streaming down my cheeks and I’m clinging to him as he holds me tight. For a moment we stay like that, clutching each other in the hallway, with him whispering soothing things to me. Finally, I manage to gather myself, and I pull away enough to see his face. “How? You’re supposed to be in Vegas. How are you here?”
“Lamar texted. Said I needed to be here when you got back. He said you needed me.”
I turn, my eyes searching out Lamar who’s standing in the entryway, the door now closed behind him. He lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “I wasn’t wrong.”
I mouth thank you.
“You flew back,” I say to Devlin. “For me.”
“Oh, baby, what else would you expect? Do you want to tell me what happened?”
With that, the tears start up again, simply from the knowledge that he came only because I needed him.
I bury my face against his chest again, and I’m clinging to him when I hear the door open once again at the same time that Brandy says, “—and when he went into the surf, I just about lost—Hello? What’s going on?”
Immediately, Jake leaves Brandy and Christopher to bound forward and snuffle my rear. Despite everything, I laugh, then reach down to stroke his head.
“It’s okay,” Lamar says to the room in general. “I’ll talk to you soon, Sherlock.”
I nod, and then blow him a kiss.
He grins, holds my gaze for a moment, then turns to leave, his fingers brushing Brandy’s shoulder as if to say that he’ll fill her in later.
Brandy, of course, isn’t willing to wait. She looks from me to Devlin. “What happened?”
“I had a shitty day,” I say. “Lamar was sweet and told Devlin to meet me here.”
I watch as Christopher tugs Brandy’s hand before she can ask another question. “You know what I was thinking?” Before Brandy can answer, he continues. “I was thinking that it would be really fun to go to that movie theater on Pacific. What’s it called? The Prestige? Go see a classic movie. Wouldn’t that be a blast?”
It’s clear from Brandy’s face that she thinks that’s about the weirdest request ever. But then she looks at me, and I see realization in her eyes. She turns to Christopher and gives him a bright smile and a quick nod. “That is a totally terrific idea. I wonder what’s showing.”
“Doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, I’m sure we’ll like it. There’s got to be something starting soon, right? If not, we’ll grab a bite first.”
“The Maltese Falcon,” I say, remembering Lamar’s date with Tracy.
“A good movie,” Devlin says. “And, guys? Thanks.”
“Not to worry,” Brandy says. “And we’ll get drinks after the movie, so don’t expect to see me back until at least one or two. Right?”
Beside her Christopher nods as Brandy gives me a supportive hug. I know it costs her something not to ask me for more details about what’s going on. But I also can’t deny that I’m glad she’s leaving. Right now, I want only Devlin, and the fact that Brandy understands that is another reason why she’s my bestie.
“Cocoa?” Devlin asks as the door closes behind them.
“What?”
“It’s one of my quirks,” he confesses. “When I’ve had a shitty day, I like to drink cocoa.”
I feel the smile tug at my mouth. “In that case, by all means.” He takes my hand and starts to settle me on the sofa that’s a few feet away from where the kitchen opens into the living room. I shake my head, wanting to be able to see him and talk to him. So I shift our trajectory toward the kitchen island’s bar. Then I settle on a stool and watch as he goes into the kitchen and starts to open and close all of Brandy’s cabinets and drawers, finally ending up standing in the pantry looking more than a little befuddled.
“You don’t look like you do this very often.”
“Au contraire. I’m a man of many skills. This, however, isn’t my pantry. And despite the fact that your roommate makes damn good muffins, she apparently isn’t a connoisseur of fine cocoa. She does however have little paper packets. He pulls out a brand of powdered cocoa mix and shakes it. “Remind me to give her hell for this,” he says. “I mean, fake marshmallows? That’s just wrong.”
Now my smile bubbles out into a laugh, and right then, I’m so damn grateful to Lamar for having sent for Devlin that I’m almost on the verge of tears again. I look down, not wanting him to worry about what are actually happy tears, and only look back up when I’m sure I have myself under control.
He’s staring at me, his brow knit with concern.
“It’s all good,” I assure him. “I’m laughing at this unexpected domesticity.”
“I’m a man of mystery.”
I make a scoffing noise. “Yes. You are definitely that.” I sit comfortably and watch him fill the kettle and heat the water, and then, with more aplomb than the making of powdered cocoa requires, he pours it into one of the fancy china cups he finds in the cabinet above the refrigerator.
He gently plates it on the matching saucer, then opens a box of Oreos and puts two beside the cup. “Is there anything else madam requires?”
My lips twitch, but I answer serenely. “No, thank you. That will be all.”
“Then I’ll leave you to it.” He starts to turn away.
“Don’t you dare go. Aren’t you having cocoa too?”
“As m’lady wishes.” He makes himself a cup with the still-hot water and comes to sit beside me at the bar. “Would you rather go to the sofa?”
I shake my head. “No. I like it here. This is where I sit when Brandy and I talk. It feels...” I trail off not sure what the word is. Not domestic? Homey? That’s not what I mean either. “Right,” I finally say with a shrug. “I guess it feels right.”
He reaches over and brushes his thumb over my cheek. “As far as I’m concerned, baby, everything feels right when I’m with you.”
I don’t realize that I’ve started to shed tears until I taste the saltiness with my cocoa. “Thank you for turning around a really shitty day.”
“Do you want me to ask what happened?”
I blink. “Lamar didn’t tell you?”
“Only that you needed me. Do you want to talk about it?”
“Part of me does, and part of me doesn’t.” I take a sip of cocoa to give me time to think. “But you came all this way, you deserve to know.”
“No, that’s entirely up to you. You can tell me when you’re ready, or never.”
I take a sip of cocoa, then nibble at the Oreo, not breaking it apart because to me that just seems wrong. Why invent a sandwich cookie if they want people to take them apart? It’s not like I take apart tuna fish sandwiches. Or peanut butter. The whole thing reeks of strangeness.
I tell that to Devlin, who nods with exactly the right amount of gravity. “Even so,” he says, then proceeds to take apart his cookie and scrape off the frosting with h
is teeth.
“And here I thought I respected you,” I say sadly, before taking a full, proper bite of my Oreo. Crumbs fall into my lap, and I wipe them off, then take another sip of cocoa.
I’m stalling, of course, but it’s a nice kind of interlude. And when Devlin reaches over and takes my hand, it’s as if he’s turned a key inside me. I’m ready to talk now, but only so long as he’s touching me. Sharing his strength with me.
He might as well have opened a floodgate. I start slow, but soon the whole story pours out. About the threat to my mother, and how Uncle Peter didn’t do a thing about it.
“He knew that if he didn’t make it right with your father, that my mother would pay. He knew, he absolutely, one hundred percent knew, but he did it anyway. He loved that life—he loved taking those risks even more than he loved his sister. I don’t understand how that’s possible. And why did your father let him live afterwards? Peter stole from The Wolf, and yet he survived to do it all over again years later in Laguna Cortez. It doesn’t make any sense. I don’t know what he was thinking.”
Devlin’s face has gone completely pale. “Christ.” He shakes his head. “I don’t have answers for you, baby. Not really. As for why, my guess is that Peter didn’t believe it. He loved your mom, and he was the kind of guy who got away with things. He had an inflated sense of his own importance, and he probably assumed he was enough of a friend to my father that he wouldn’t get punished.”
Devlin shrugs before continuing. “I think they were friends. But he wasn’t punished by Daniel Lopez. He was punished by The Wolf. And most people in the fold—even those closest to him—never fully understood the difference.”
“Not Uncle Peter,” I protest. “He knew the score. He knew what The Wolf did to your mom, didn’t he? Which means he knew The Wolf would hurt my mom, too, and he let it happen.”
