“Tell me about it,” O’Fallon replied. He opened the cage and removed the bird, apprehensive. This could end up with his guest requiring stitches. He set the parrot on the sofa and motioned for Gavenia to have a seat.
Seamus made a beeline for the Gavenia, his usual way of vetting newcomers. If the visitor freaked, he’d retreat to his cage and sulk. If it looked like he was going to be tolerated, he’d test the newcomer. He was relentless when it came to doing his duty.
After his guest and the bird settled on the couch, O’Fallon fussed around the room, trying not to telegraph his nervousness. Maybe if they were lucky, Seamus would give this one a pass.
He heard the rustle of a plastic sack. “You’re a very fine parrot, Seamus. I suspect your reputation has been a bit overblown.” A second later, O’Fallon heard, “Hey! Ouch!”
Seamus had latched on to her left index finger with his powerful beak. With a bit more pressure he could snap the bone.
The parrot waited as if to judge Gavenia’s reaction.
O’Fallon started across the room, aggravated. “Don’t move, I’ll get him to—,” he began.
Gavenia shook her head and waved him off with her free hand. “No problem. We just need to come to an understanding.” He could tell the beak was inflicting pain, but blood wasn’t dripping, at least not yet.
She leaned over and addressed the bird directly. “Seamus, if you crunch down on my finger, I will have to go to the ER, and you will not be able to eat these blueberries.” She rustled the sack that sat next to her and fished out a single blue orb, holding it in such a way that the bird could see it. “You let go, I’ll feed you the berries. So what’s it going to be?” O’Fallon saw her bit her inside lip after she spoke, evidence that the bird’s bite was increasing in pressure.
Seamus kept his beak in place for a time as if thinking through his options.
“Well, gee, I wonder if there are any nice parrots around that might like these,” she said. She popped a berry into her mouth and then cooed, “Oh, boy, was that good.”
Seamus unclamped his beak and called, “Yo! Berries!”
“That’s better,” Gavenia said, pulling a couple more out of the bag and placing them on her palm. Seamus dove in. Her index finger sported a red mark, but there didn’t seem to be any permanent damage.
O’Fallon’s jaw fell slack. Gavenia hadn’t screamed and tried to fling the parrot away like a Frisbee. Instead she’d bribed the rascal with fruit. I’ll be damned.
The answer was obvious. “You’ve been around parrots before,” he said.
She nodded, watching the bird gnaw on a berry while balancing on one foot. “I worked in an animal lab during college. We had a macaw named Tommy, a monkey named Bill, a very shy hedgehog called Hermione, and a bunch of snakes.”
“More, Tinker!” Seamus commanded. “Berries.”
“Tinker?” O’Fallon asked, grinning. “How’d you get that nickname?”
“It’s Tinker Bell, courtesy of my sister.” She grinned. “I call her Pooh, so it’s only fair.”
He chortled. In truth, she did look a bit like a fairy.
“Hey, you had to have a nickname with hair like that,” she countered.
He ignored her, not about to share that bit of personal information. “Seamus will get bored here pretty soon and stop plaguing you.”
“Not going to tell me, huh?”
He gave a quick shake of his head.
“I’ll just have to figure it out.” She fed the bird another berry. “He’s a kick. How long has he been with you?”
O’Fallon’s smile widened even more. She’d not asked how long he’d owned Seamus. She understood.
“Twelve years, two marriages, and a number of girlfriends.”
“Hard on women, is he?” she joked.
“Both of us are, I think. You, however, seem to be a hit.”
“It’s the berries, not me,” she said wistfully.
Don’t be so sure. What had Avery said? Find a woman who passes muster with Seamus, and you got it made.
It was just his luck the woman was a card-carrying witch.
Chapter Fifteen
Seamus kept an eye out from his perch on the top of a kitchen chair as Gavenia and O’Fallon ate their pizza. He’d been nearly mute since she’d stuffed him full of berries.
O’Fallon cleaned his greasy hands on a napkin and unfolded a ragged LA map. Once it lay flat on the table, he took his empty paper plate and traced around it with a marker, using Bel Air as the central point.
“High-tech,” Gavenia said around a mouthful of pizza.
O’Fallon shot her a boyish grin. He detected her unique scent—a blend of strawberries and jasmine, he thought. It suited her.
“Okay, we know that the day of Bradley’s funeral the dog was here, in Bel Air, and then Janet took off with him.” He pointed toward the Allifords’ address with a plastic fork tine. He paused and frowned. “Did she leave in her own car or call a cab?”
Gavenia shook her head. “I don’t know.” She tugged her cell phone out of her voluminous purse and punched in a number.
“Gregory Alliford, please. It’s Gavenia Kingsgrave.”
She sprinkled a few more red pepper flakes on her pizza while she waited. When Alliford picked up the phone, she posed the question. A long torrent of words flooded down the line.
“Yes, I know about the private investigator Mrs. Pearce hired. We’ve tangled a couple of times.” She gave O’Fallon a look. “I have it on good authority he’s no longer on the case.”
More words. O’Fallon mimed someone taking a drink, and Gavenia nodded in response.
“Okay, that’s good. I’m glad Emily called.” More words. “Bradley’s quiet? Oh, good. We’re going to work through all the shelters and see if we can find the dog.” A question. “We?” She looked up, and O’Fallon shook his head. “Ah, my sister is helping me.”
She nervously pushed a stray piece of cheese back in place on top of a slice of pizza. Lying clearly wasn’t her forte.
“Thanks, Gregory; I’ll be in touch.”
Gavenia sighed and flipped the phone shut. “Janet took her own car.”
O’Fallon sipped his cola and then tapped his finger on the map. “Damn. I’d hoped it was a cab.”
“Why would that help?”
“I could call the dispatcher to see where she was dropped. That would narrow the field to something a bit smaller than metropolitan LA.”
“You can do that?” Gavenia asked.
“I can.” O’Fallon gave a knowing smile. “See, having a PI on your side isn’t a bad thing.”
“I’ll withhold judgment on that,” she said.
“Not going to give me an inch, are you?” he asked. She had warmed considerably since entering his apartment, and he wanted to keep the good vibes coming.
“Nope. You’re still on that line between ‘total nuisance’ and ‘might be a good guy.’”
“What will it take to push me over to the ‘good guy’ side?”
“Finding Merlin.” She returned to her task of paging through the animal shelters’ websites. Scores of black dogs appeared in front of her. Rosco, Bert, Blackie . . . but no wizard.
“I never had any idea of how many black dogs there are in LA,” she mused.
“Start with the shelters at the far end of the circle,” he said, pointing to the map.
“Why not near Bel Air?”
“Because if she really wanted the dog to be lost, she’d not let it loose anywhere near her house. It might find its way back home like in one of those movies.”
“What if she wasn’t trying to lose it?”
He only shrugged.
“Great, just great,” she muttered.
Bart faded back in view and cleared his throat. Gavenia looked over at him. Rather domestic scene, don’t you think? he asked. A man, a woman, a bird. All you need is a couple of kids and—
“Stop it,” she said, and then realized O’Fallon had heard her. “
Sorry; some issues with the mouse,” she said, pointing at the object.
Fortunately he didn’t question her and instead picked up his portable phone and headed for the living room, dialing as he walked. She thought she heard the words DMV and license plate number.
Tabbing down through the pictures reminded Gavenia of playing the slots in Vegas; one hit and they had the jackpot, providing Lady Luck sat at her elbow.
“Boring,” Seamus observed from his perch on the chair, and dug under a wing with his beak.
Gavenia gave him a knowing nod. “You got that right, Seamus me lad.”
They called it a night at about seven after letting Ari know Gavenia would be late for her shift at the shelter’s bottomless sink.
“Eight in the morning at Red’s?” he repeated.
“I heard you the first two times,” she said. “So what are we going to do?”
“I’ll come up with a plan by then.”
She gave him a dubious look. “Is this kind of thing always so frustrating? Investigations, I mean?”
“Usually,” he admitted. “Lots of blind alleys until you find the right one. Sometimes you never do.”
“When you talked to Janet, did she say why she took the dog in the first place?” Gavenia asked, leaning on her cane near the open door.
“She claims she wanted company. I don’t buy it.”
Gavenia shifted her weight to the doorjamb. “You know, that actually might be the truth. Animals love you no matter your vices,” she said softly. “Unlike her mother. I think all Janet wants is someone who loves her for who she is.”
“Isn’t that what all of us want?” he said softly.
Gavenia gazed upward into his brown eyes and saw the sadness within.
“Yes,” she said. She hesitated at the door for a moment and then looked over at the parrot, resting inside his cage.
“Bye, Seamus.”
“Tinker,” was the reply.
“Gavenia?”
She jarred out of her stupor, surprised at the use of her first name. “Yes?”
O’Fallon held out a piece of paper. “Directions to Red’s Diner.”
“Thanks.” An insulated mug appeared in her field of vision.
“Fresh coffee. You look too tired to drive safely.”
“Thanks.” She took the sealed mug and headed for her car. Much to her amusement he escorted her, waiting until she was inside the vehicle and the doors locked.
Well, well, old-fashioned manners, Bart remarked. Winston didn’t even do that.
“See you in the morning,” O’Fallon called, and walked back toward the apartment building. As she pulled out onto the street, he waved. She returned it. Bart had been right: it felt so damned domestic.
“Don’t start with me,” she said.
Her Guardian stuck out his tongue and vanished.
As she drove back toward the shelter, the mug’s contents steaming up the interior of the car, she had to admit two things: Douglas O’Fallon could be a really nice guy when he wanted to, and he made a great cup of coffee.
* * *
The call came at three in the morning. O’Fallon’s years as a cop worked in his favor—he was awake and coherent before the second ring.
“Doug, it’s Avery.”
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s Adam. He’s been hurt.”
O’Fallon didn’t ask for any more details than the basics, then flew into his clothes and headed for the hospital. His friend’s worried face was easy to spot among the crowd in the emergency room. Since Avery didn’t have his rosary in his hands, and that gave O’Fallon hope. If things were really bad, he’d be bent over in prayer.
The priest rose at his approach.
“How is he?” O’Fallon asked.
“They’re still doing X-rays.” The priest frowned. “What happened to you?”
O’Fallon scanned the room. He didn’t see any cops, at least none he recognized. He beckoned to Avery, and the pair moved to a discreet corner.
“I met Adam at the Onion the other night. He wanted to talk about what’s going on. . . .” He paused and looked around again for good measure. “After he left, I got jumped in the parking lot. It was a warning to back off.”
“Did you file a police report?”
“No, and I didn’t tell your son, either.” O’Fallon rubbed a hand over his face in weariness.
Avery shot another look toward the double doors that led to the treatment bays. “They’re supposed to come for me after they finish the X-rays.”
“What exactly happened?” O’Fallon asked, unconsciously reaching for his pen and pad. The moment the pad came out of his jacket, he felt foolish. A wan smile appeared on his friend’s face.
“Old habits . . . ,” Avery said.
“Yeah.” He opened the pad and waited for the details.
Avery turned toward the large window in thought. Outside, the insistent beeping of a vehicle motion alarm announced the arrival of an ambulance.
“Adam’s partner told him to meet him near the Alexandria Hotel at two, but Glass wasn’t there when he arrived. Adam heard screams coming from a nearby alley and he went in without backup.”
“And walked into what?” O’Fallon asked, eyes narrowing.
“He found two guys roughing up a woman. Then they jumped him.”
“A setup?”
“He’s not sure. I don’t think he wants to admit his own partner would do that to him. They beat him up pretty bad. One had an iron pipe.”
O’Fallon’s attention popped up from his notes. “That sounds familiar. One of the guys who went after me used the same thing. Did Glass ever show up?”
“Eventually. He said he’d been held up in traffic.”
“At two in the morning?” O’Fallon snorted.
A dark glare from Avery, at odds with his clerical collar. “They’re chalking it up as a random assault.”
“What’s your gut say?”
“He got set up.”
O’Fallon nodded, tucking away the notepad and pen. “My gut agrees.”
“Father Elliot?” a voice called. They turned to see a worried young man walking toward them. He looked about thirty, tanned, tall, well-built, clad in a jeans and a blast jacket.
Adam’s lover?
“Carey,” Avery said. The two men stared at each other for a moment and then awkwardly shook hands.
“Doug O’Fallon,” he said, offering his hand. The man reciprocated, and O’Fallon received a strong handshake, not unlike Adam’s.
“How is he?” Carey asked, exhibiting that haunted look so common to loved ones waiting for bad news.
“They’re still checking him out,” Avery reported after another look toward the double doors.
“He just can’t keep doing this,” Carey said, jamming his hands into the pockets of his jacket, his brows knit together.
“He’ll be out on medical for a while. Let him stew on what’s happened, and maybe it’ll help him make the decision,” O’Fallon advised. “Just don’t push him.”
“That’s hard to do when you know he could get himself killed,” the young man retorted.
“Part of the territory,” O’Fallon said.
“Doesn’t have to be,” was the tight response. “It’s not worth his life.”
“If someone told you to quit being a lawyer, would you go for that?” O’Fallon asked, testing the waters.
Carey frowned and looked away. “No, I probably wouldn’t,” the man admitted.
“Then the best thing is to let him be a cop somewhere else than downtown. Somewhere they’ll appreciate his abilities and not care that he’s gay.”
Carey stared at him as if O’Fallon had just admitted to still believing in Santa Claus. “You think such a place exists?”
O’Fallon shrugged and sighed. “I don’t know, but if he gets himself a mentor like I did”—he paused and looked over at Avery—“he’ll do okay.”
“Father Elliot?” a voice called. The pries
t hustled toward the white-coated figure, Carey and O’Fallon right behind.
“I’m Dr. Liao. We’re finished with your son. You can see him now,” the doctor advised. She appeared to be Chinese or Taiwanese, and petite. The lab coat dwarfed her.
“So what’s the verdict?” the priest asked, his voice barely under control.
“Broken arm, cracked ribs, lots of bruising. I want to keep him until this afternoon to make sure everything remains stable, and then he can go home,” the woman replied.
“Thank God,” Avery said, crossing himself as Carey out let a whoosh of air in relief.
“Go on, I’ll wait. You two are family,” O’Fallon said. He retreated to a far bench and lowered himself into the seat. Though his own ribs ached in sympathy, he knew that Adam’s disillusionment would be far worse than the actual wounds.
He looked around the room and realized somebody was missing.
Where the hell is Glass?
* * *
A couple hours later, Adam was propped up in a bed, his right arm in a cast, his face swollen like a prizefighter’s. He was trying to work a pencil with his left hand and it kept slipping out of his grasp. He wasn’t a southpaw.
“Can I help?” O’Fallon asked.
Adam took his time focusing on who stood next to the bed and then nodded in slow motion. Apparently they’d been very liberal with the pain medication.
“They want me to fill out the menu. Do I look like I want to eat?” he grumbled. He blinked at his guest as if just realizing O’Fallon had a few skid marks of his own. “Heavy date with one of those Catholic matrons?”
O’Fallon grinned; the kid was going to be just fine.
“Yeah, they’re a kinky bunch.” He took the pencil and scanned the offering. “From what I can see here, I wouldn’t stay too long or you’re going to starve to death.”
“I’ll have Carey smuggle in food.” Adam worked his jaw gingerly. “Soft food.” He thought for a moment and then added, “Just mark what you want. I really don’t care.”
O’Fallon heard the depression behind the words. The young cop was coming to grips with the truth—he’d been sold out by one of his own.