He waited outside the house, leaning against the car. Janet Alliford appeared a few minutes later, shouting abuse. The front door slammed behind her, and he could hear the sound of locks engaging from twenty feet away. Janet stumbled into the driveway and then jerked her eyes around, bewildered. Apparently, she hadn’t realized he’d dismissed the cab.
The shakes overwhelmed her as she teetered against a concrete planter, her face mottled and tearstained.
“I’ll give you a ride,” O’Fallon said.
“Why?”
“Because your husband’s not going to change his mind.”
“He’s fucking crazy,” she said.
“It must be going around.” O’Fallon gestured, and she stumbled toward the car. He made no effort to help her.
As he pulled onto the street, she sniffled and rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. “I’m not that bad.”
“You’re that bad and then some.” She hadn’t specified a destination, but given what the cabbie had told him, it would be someplace downtown, the heart of Skid Row. He turned toward the freeway.
“I don’t give a damn what you think,” she retorted. He thought he could hear a bit of her mother’s arrogance in the words.
“Fine by me.” He stopped talking. People hated silence and often they’d babble just to fill the void. Janet Alliford didn’t. For a time he thought she’d fallen asleep. She roused as he took the exit off the 110 toward the heart of LA.
“Where are we going?” she asked, staring out the passenger window.
“Downtown.”
She eyed him. “Why?”
“Where else would you be? You can’t go back to Palm Springs, and Gregory has cut you off. Skid Row knows your kind.”
“It’s because of . . .”
“Go on.”
“Because of Bradley.”
Righteous indignation flared within him. “That story might play with the other addicts, but not with me. You were coking up way before your son’s death.”
The blow on his arm surprised him, as did the second one. He was in no position to fend her off, so he drove on, sensing her anger would run out of steam. The third strike was lighter.
“I’m not a good substitute for your mother,” he said.
“You son of a bitch.”
He glared at her. “Leave my sainted mother out of this.”
“If she’s like mine, she’s no saint.” Janet’s hands twisted in her lap, and her body twitched to its own rhythm.
“No, she was nothing like yours.”
She gave him an odd expression. “Mother’s to blame for this. I’m not strong, not like my sister, Emily. Mother always said so.”
O’Fallon frowned. “Your mother is a coldhearted, self-centered bitch, Mrs. Alliford. That’s the truth of it. Either you suck up and deal, or you’re going to martyr yourself on her altar. And trust me, she’ll guilt you every step of the way.”
The woman’s mouth fell open. He wondered if anyone had ever been that blunt about her mother. If she ratted him out to Mrs. Pierce his job would vanish.
So be it. “Your dead son needs your help. Where’s Merlin?”
She shook her head. “I just . . . dumped him on the street.”
He could hear the lie. “Try that again.”
“I left him on the street,” she insisted.
“How could you do that?”
Janet shook her head, refusing to answer.
“Why did you take him in the first place?” he probed.
“Like I said, I wanted—”
“No! Tell me the truth.”
Janet bit her lip and then shook her head in a pathetic gesture. “I wanted somebody who liked me,” she said in a childlike voice.
He drove the length of Main and, at her request, stopped in front of the old Los Angeles Children’s Museum.
She stared out the window for a time.
“I always wanted to come here as a kid, but she would never bring me.” A shuddering breath. “Now it’s closed.”
As the woman exited the car, he slipped her a twenty though it would, no doubt, go up her nose.
She gave him a wan smile. “Thank you.”
“Good luck,” he said. The words felt empty. Deep in his heart, he knew that luck had very little to do with Janet Alliford’s future.
* * *
“How ya doing?” Viv asked, kneeling at Gavenia’s side.
“Better,” Gavenia replied, and then took another sip of Moonbeam tea. She’d retreated to Crystal Horizons seeking sanctuary. The moment she’d entered the building she’d headed for the hidden fairy behind the books. Touching her had helped.
“I can’t believe he’d just say something like that,” Viv muttered under her breath while keeping an eye on a browsing customer. “Was Winston . . . married?”
There was the problem. In the first few minutes after O’Fallon had unloaded on her, Gavenia fell into deep denial. By the time Bart had calmed her down, the truth had seeped into her pores like raw acid.
“It’s possible,” she said. Now that she thought about it, she remembered he had a roving eye and spent a lot of time on the phone to his “secretary.” “Yeah, definitely possible.”
Viv wisely didn’t comment, but headed toward her customer. As she helped the lady pick out an appropriate quartz crystal, Bart appeared at Gavenia’s side, concerned.
“Winston knew I wouldn’t date married guys. Why did he lie to me?” she whispered.
You’ll have to ask him.
Gavenia shook her head instantly. She took a sip of the tea and then asked, “Why did the PI tell me something like that?”
Because you hurt him.
“What do you mean?” she asked, furrowing her brows.
Think about it. He promptly vanished. She took a long sip of the tea, inhaling the aroma while Viv showed the customer her selection of amethyst clusters.
Gavenia replayed the encounter between her and O’Fallon and then groaned. She’d dinged him on his failed marriages—gloated about them—and then he’d struck back with Winston. They kept drawing blood each time they squared off.
“He’s an ally, not an enemy,” Viv said. The customer was gone, and now Gavenia vaguely remembered the sound of the cash register and then the triple chime of the front door. Apparently Viv had decided a tarot reading was in order. Sorry; I was off in my own world,” Gavenia said.
“I figured.” Viv held up a card. “Your PI is a questing knight, always in search of the truth. He’s a good guy, despite his lack of manners.”
Gavenia opened her mouth to protest and then abandoned the effort. Viv and the cards were right—O’Fallon wasn’t the enemy.
“So what are we in for?”
Viv held up another card. Gavenia’s mouth dropped open.
“Not a chance.”
Viv ignored her protest. “The Lovers—either you two are going to become hot and heavy or you’re going form a partnership.”
Gavenia scrunched her face. “Maybe a partnership, because I can’t imagine . . .” She paused, thinking of what it would be like to kiss the Irish guy. Still, every time they’d met, he’d been an ass, and after the con game Winston had played on her . . . “Partnership,” she announced firmly, as if that would settle the issue. “What else?”
Viv whistled and held up the Tower card—a horrific vision of lightning striking a tall tower as figures tumbled to their deaths on the rocks below.
“Looks like the crap is going to hit the fan and you’d better have a very large umbrella,” Viv said, gathering the cards back into a single stack. “More tea?”
Despite the pounding in her temples, Gavenia nodded, holding out her cup in a quaking hand.
“Make it a double.”
Chapter Twelve
Driven by some deep need, O’Fallon visited all six charities listed on the sheet within two hours, racing from one to the other like a man possessed. He’d come away from each laden with pamphlets and donation forms. They all had
two things in common: all were legit, and Ms. Kingsgrave was not involved in their day-to-day operations. Four of them had never heard of the witch; the other two recognized her name solely because donors had mentioned her in passing.
Now, as he sat in his car staring blankly at the pile of brochures in his lap, he could hear Avery’s voice as clearly as if the man were sitting next to him.
Epiphany, prove thyself.
If this had been a criminal investigation, O’Fallon would have crossed Ms. Kingsgrave off the suspect list long ago. Just as Avery had cautioned, he’d allowed personal bias to cloud his judgment. Her gift was genuine. If she had a weakness, it was her taste in men. Other than that, Gavenia Kingsgrave was on the level. Somehow he did not think Mommie Dreadful in Palm Springs would be pleased with the truth.
* * *
Gavenia shifted positions to ease the cramp in her back from leaning over the deep-sink. Nearby, Ari stacked pots on the wide shelves in the shelter’s kitchen. They’d served fifty-three tonight, a new record. Cleanup wasn’t a snap, at least from Gavenia’s point of view.
“Am I done yet?” she asked, her hands pruned from the sudsy water.
“You’re really close. Only one more,” Ari replied.
“She’s not whining, is she?” their Aunt Lucy asked from her place at a small desk in the corner, head bent over paperwork. Her short silver-gray hair stopped at her ears; reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. Bart leaned nearby, his face registering benign disinterest.
“Oh, no, I’m not whining,” Gavenia said. “I’m too tired to whine.”
“Here, Cinderella, this is the last one,” Ari said, plunking an immense pot down on the counter next to the sink. Gavenia hoisted it into the water and scrubbed.
“I tangled with that PI again,” she said as she worked on the pot’s interior. She’d decided not to share Winston’s secret, at least for the time being. Time would allow her to come to grips with that personal earthquake.
“You have a private investigator following you?” Lucy asked, her attention pulled away from the paperwork.
“Yup. He thinks I’m trying to scam one of my clients.”
“Do you want me to have someone call him off?” her aunt offered.
Gavenia rinsed the pot and placed it on the countertop, pondering the offer. Lucy had enough clout that she could make that happen, but it didn’t seem right. The guy was only doing his job, despite annoying the hell out of her in the process.
“No, he’ll get bored and go away.”
“You hope,” Ari added. “Oh, I found out a bit about Janet Alliford.”
“And?” Gavenia asked, drying her hands on a rough terry-cloth towel.
“You want the short or the long version?”
“Short.”
“Married Gregory Alliford over her mother’s objections, has a genuine affinity for cocaine, been in and out of rehab a number of times, and is overly concerned about her mother’s goodwill.”
No surprises there, Bart murmured.
Gavenia nodded. “That fits what her sister, Emily, told me on the phone. Anything on Mrs. Pearce?”
Lucy’s head came up from the papers. “Augusta Pearce?” she asked.
“That’s the one,” Gavenia replied. An ice-cream bar would hit the spot right now, but the shelter appeared woefully lacking in those necessities of life. She made a mental note to bring down a few cases.
“Be careful of that one. She’s got a ruthless streak,” Lucy advised.
“Tangled with her before?”
“Oh, definitely. Nasty piece of work under those designer clothes. Heart of absolute granite.”
“I noticed. We met a few days back.”
Her aunt eyed her. “I’m impressed. You have fewer scars than I would anticipate.”
“We mutually agreed to loathe each other.”
“She’ll keep pushing until she gets what she wants.”
Ari nodded in agreement and leaned against a counter. “Word is that Mrs. Pearce intends to hire a detective to find Janet. She wants her locked up so she doesn’t embarrass the family.”
“What if Janet doesn’t want to be locked up?”
Ari’s face grew solemn. “That isn’t Mrs. Pearce’s concern.”
“Is O’Fallon the guy she hired to do the deed?” Gavenia asked.
“I don’t know.”
Gavenia frowned in thought. “Nobody has a clue where Merlin is?”
“Nope,” Ari replied. “It’s like he doesn’t exist.”
“Unreal.” Gavenia looked around the kitchen. “Am I done?”
“You’re done,” Ari reported. “Same time tomorrow night.”
“Okay, I’ll bring my spare pair of hands and some ice-cream bars.” After brushing a kiss on her aunt’s cheek, she exited into the back parking lot, Bart at her side.
Staring up into the night sky, she asked, “Where art thou, Merlin?” When no comet blazed in the heavens to light the way, she dragged herself into the car, weary. She knew what she had to do, and it irked her.
“O’Fallon is the key,” she said. “He knows how to work an investigation. I have to convince him to help me.”
And just how do you intend to do that? Bart asked from the passenger seat. He was now dressed in the saffron robes of a Buddhist monk, and she decided not to call him on it.
“I will have to turn on the charm,” she said.
Now we’re in trouble.
* * *
It wasn’t O’Fallon’s first gay bar, but this time he wasn’t toting a badge and in the midst of an official investigation. The Out-Rageous Onion certainly wasn’t one of the more over-the-top queer bars in LA; in fact, it had a reputation for being quite tame. He still felt out of his depth.
He took a deep breath, exhaled loudly, locked the car, and straightened his jacket. It was on the chilly side now that night had fallen, and the jacket was his personal favorite, one that made him feel comfortable no matter the situation. Tonight it wasn’t working its magic.
It made sense that Adam had chosen this particular bar: the Out-Rageous Onion was his home turf, and it was very unlikely that any of the cops from his precinct would be within ten miles of the place. A perfect location to meet with someone you didn’t want to be seen with.
“But still,” O’Fallon muttered, straightening his jacket once again in a self-conscious gesture. With another long sigh, he strode toward the door.
The bar’s interior was rather chic, with sky-blue decor, low lighting, and music subtle enough to permit conversation. Once his eyes adjusted, he found he rather liked the place. It wasn’t smoky or loud and, though most of the couples were of the same sex, it seemed quite pleasant. O’Fallon blew air through pursed lips, realizing he just couldn’t stand near the door like a wooden Indian. Right before he moved farther into the bar, a young man in a royal-blue silk shirt and tight leather pants paused in front of him, grinned, and announced, “Flamin’!”
O’Fallon frowned. “Pardon?”
“Your hair,” the man said, pointing upward at O’Fallon’s locks. “Flamin’ red. Cool color.” After a thumbs-up, the fellow rejoined his companion in a nearby booth.
“Apparently, I’m a hit,” O’Fallon mumbled under his breath. He made his way through the crowd to the bar, ordered an overpriced beer, and surveyed the situation. A familiar face caught his attention. To his chagrin it wasn’t Adam, but Frank Dunston, one of the cops O’Fallon used to work with in West Hollywood. . He sat at a table with another young man, and they were holding hands. Dunston’s eyes widened, and then a knowing smile appeared on his face. He raised his beer bottle in salute.
Dammit. He’d never known Dunston was homosexual. He gave a quick nod, silently cursing his luck. Telling Dunston he wasn’t gay would sound lame; it was best to let the moment pass. Keen to avoid awkward conversation, he moved toward the back of the building, wiggling through the couples. No sign of Avery’s son. He fidgeted, trying to keep his face neutral so as not to attract
unwanted interest.
Two men were kissing in the corner, cuddling close, deeply in lust. He averted his eyes. Nothing about the scene aroused him—not like a woman with pretty eyes and a well-turned behind.
As it should be. When his last therapist had told him that Seamus was acting as an “outward manifestation” of O’Fallon’s “inward hostility toward the female sex” and that he might be gay, he’d put a prompt end to those therapy sessions.
“Psycho bullshit,” he grumbled. “I just haven’t met the right woman yet.”
As if on cue, a lady with long blond hair walked by, hand in hand with a young man. Her eyes were nice, but nothing to compare with Gavenia Kingsgrave’s sapphire gems. He thought about the witch for a moment and then shook his head. No matter how gorgeous her blue eyes, her body was forbidden fruit. Still, his mind tugged at him, pulling forward an image of the witch lying nude on his bed and all the untold delights that might be in store.
He bulldozed those erotic thoughts out of his brain.
Pagans pave the road to hell.
A discreet tap on his shoulder. He prepared himself for the come-on. Instead, he found himself scrutinized by a tall, goateed individual in impeccable clothes. The jacket alone would have cost most of O’Fallon’s monthly pension.
“You O’Fallon?”
He nodded in response.
The guy beckoned. “This way.”
O’Fallon trailed behind, weaving through the mélange of couples, some male, some female, and some heterosexual. His apprehension dropped a couple of notches despite the encounter with Dunston.
Avery Elliot’s only son sat in a private room in the back of the club, a beer at his elbow. Once the goateed escort dropped O’Fallon in the designated place, he shut the door, insuring private conversation. In some ways, it felt like an illicit meeting right out of a dime detective novel, except Adam wasn’t rolling a coin across his knuckles.
The young cop gestured to a chair. Buying time, O’Fallon took a swig of his own beer and then sat down. Adam had called this meeting; it was up to him to set the agenda.