“Maybe he didn’t,” Lamar says. “Or, at least, maybe it wasn’t willingly. But you know how that world works. The Wolf has somebody threaten Peter or you or one of Peter’s employees, and you can’t tell me that Peter wouldn’t cave.”
“There’s another possibility,” Chief Randall says. “It’s not one you’re going to like.”
I swallow. “You think Peter may have been working with The Wolf for a while. Like actually in deep.”
“It’s a possibility,” he says. “If he was part of The Wolf’s organization even before he came to Laguna Cortez—”
I lift up a hand to stop his words, because that’s something I just don’t want to hear.
“I’m sorry. But you can’t ignore the possibility.”
I nod, determined not to cry. I was a cop, dammit. I can deal with this. “I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. The one thing I know for sure is that he would have done anything to protect me,” I say. “He may have been gone a lot, but he loved me. And we were the only family either of us had left.”
What I don’t say is that he would have protected Alex, too. And if he warned Alex of a threat…
Well, that’s even more proof that Alex ran because he feared for his life. And it raises the question of how much Alex knew—and if he was dealing, too. Because that is the only reason I can think of for him to have remained both gone and silent.
I drag my fingers through my hair, craving answers I have no easy way to find. “I want to know which one of The Wolf’s flunkies really shot my uncle,” I say, as I stand and start pacing.
“And I want to know if Peter was dealing on the side because he was forced to or because the money lured him in or because he’d been in deep all along.”
I draw a breath, my mind whirring. If Peter was truly part of The Wolf’s organization, maybe he’d been in deep for a long time. I think about my mom’s things. The box of diaries and papers and personal effects that are tucked into a box I keep high in my hall closet in New York. Would there be answers there? Had she seen anything dicey about her brother?
I shake the thought off, but I’m already making a plan to call Roger and ask him to get into my apartment and ship me that box.
I frown as I continue to pace. “I want to know what the tipping point was,” I say. “Why they decided to take him out. Because something must have happened. The Wolf was too smart to take out a hit without a damn good reason.”
“You know what we know,” Randall says. “Any files you want to see, you shout. Just tell me where you want to start.”
“Thank you, and I will,” I say, but the truth is I already know. I’m going to start tonight. And I’m going to start with Alex.
“Coffee?” Lamar asks, as we leave the Chief’s office. “I’m meeting an informant in Dana Point in an hour, but we could grab a quick one across the street.”
“That works. I still have shopping to do before I go home and make myself gorgeous.”
His brows rise. “Hot date?”
“Stag,” I say. “But I scored tickets to the gala, and I plan to corner Saint.”
“What an enterprising little reporter you’ve become.”
“Asshole,” I say, hip bumping him as we push through the double glass doors. The police station is a few miles south of the Arts District near the courthouse. The bakery across the street has fulfilled the very clichéd job of serving donuts to cops for longer than I’ve been alive, and I’m surprised to see that the signage has been upgraded, now informing the world that they also serve lattes, pastries, and even gluten free fare.
I nod that direction as I side-eye Lamar.
“Don’t worry. Their box of glazed is still damn near close to heaven.”
“Phew. I was starting to worry.”
We settle at one of the sticky outdoor tables, and he goes inside to order as I scroll through my phone, checking for messages from Roger. Nothing, which I appreciate. He knows I’ll send notes when I have them.
What I do have is a text from Brandy telling me to meet someone named Inez at a boutique called Escape. I haven’t seen her since last night before coffee and parking lot shenanigans. This morning, she’d already left for the LA garment district by the time I’d rolled out of bed. But I’d texted her an SOS for fashion help, and she’d promised to come through for me.
* * *
If Inez can’t find a gala dress for you
that’ll burn Devlin Saint’s eyes,
the outfit doesn’t exist.
At cost, too. She owes me a favor.
XXOO You are the best.
Believe me. I know.
I start to tell her about Devlin and Alex, Mr. GT, my twisting stomach, and my high levels of confused adrenaline. But I stop myself. That’s a conversation to be had in person.
The only reason we haven’t had it yet is that she was asleep when I got home last night and gone when I woke up. Well, that and I haven’t decided exactly what I’m going to say yet. Or, more accurately, how I’m going to say it.
Which means that she doesn’t have a clue that I bumped into Devlin Saint last night. Or Alex Leto. Or if I went back to the bar and got another guy. Someone, perhaps, like Mr. GT.
Instead, I tap out that Lamar says hi.
Hug him for me.
Will do & gotta run!
* * *
I send the text, then slide my phone into my bag, thinking how weird it is that I’ve yet to be together with the two of them. Both have visited me in Manhattan, but at different times. And once I met up with Lamar when I’d gone to LA to cover a story. But we’ve never had all sides of the triangle together at the same time.
I’m here now, though, at least for a little while, and the knowledge that my two besties have my back lessens some of the weight I’ve been carrying since last night.
“So, do you miss it?” Lamar asks, depositing coffee and donuts on the table. He settles into the seat opposite me, his large body looking a bit ridiculous on the tiny metal chair.
I shake my head, knowing he means the job and not the town. “I thought police work would be my life. God knows I was motivated enough—bring the assholes to justice, make the streets safe for kids, right wrongs, all that stuff. I mean, you know. When we met that first day at the Academy, I was still giddy over getting my degree in criminology. Actually, becoming a cop was going to put me over the edge.”
“I remember. I felt it, too.”
“And you still do,” I point out as I pluck a donut from the box and start to rip off a bite-sized piece.
“Don’t you?”
“Sure,” I say. “I’m just fighting with a pen now instead of a badge.”
Wasn’t that how Brandy put it? And she was right. That’s what I’m doing, hoping to make a difference by shining a light into the dark that most people never even see.
“I’m proud of you, Sherlock. The Spall. That’s solid.”
“It is, Watson. I still pinch myself sometimes.”
The nicknames began as a riff off my last name when we’d gone out drinking with some other recruits. They’d teased us about being such good friends that Lamar should be named Watson and not Gage. Somehow, the names stuck. And knowing that Sherlock and Watson are together again makes my return to Laguna Cortez that much more palatable.