“Okay, just don’t bitch at me when they bring you the soft-boiled eggs,” he joked. He put marks next to the best options, waiting Adam out. The detective needed to vent to someone besides his father or his lover. Someone who would be objective.
The wait wasn’t long. “Why the–” Adam looked over toward his roommate, an older gentleman with salt-and-pepper hair; he was snoring. Adam lowered his voice. “Why the hell did my partner hang me out to dry?”
“I do believe we’ve had this conversation before,” O’Fallon said, though he knew that might kindle some anger. He ignored the chipped beef on toast and opting for the chicken surprise. “Did you know the goons?”
“No, but I swear one of them sounded familiar.”
“Someone Glass knows?”
“Might be.”
“What did they look like?”
A long sigh. “One was five seven, stocky, brown hair, thick muscles. The other was taller, more wiry. He sounded like he was from Jersey.”
O’Fallon put mental check marks by both the descriptions—he’d tangled with the pair in the Onion parking lot.
“And the woman?” he asked.
“Brown hair, scraggly build. I barely saw her before they turned on me. She took off like a frightened rabbit.”
“What did Glass say when he showed up?”
Adam’s face darkened beneath the cuts and the nascent bruises. He shot another glance toward his neighbor and then back again. His voice dropped to a barely audible whisper.
“He leaned over me as I’m puking up my guts and says, ‘I shoulda known a fag would get in trouble. What ya do, drop your pants for the wrong guy?’”
The pencil snapped in O’Fallon’s hand. He discarded the useless end in the wastebasket and continued to mark the food choices with the remaining stub. In his mind, he’d just broken Glass in half.
“So why did he want to meet down there?” he asked, keeping his voice level.
“He had a snitch who wanted to talk to him. Glass said he wanted me down there so we could follow up any leads.”
“Is that the way you guys operate?”
“No. He usually meets his snitches alone, doesn’t like me along.”
O’Fallon’s analytical mind kneaded through the information, forming a couple of theories. “There, I’ve picked the least-ghastly choices. You’ll have to let me know what the chicken surprise is like.”
Adam ignored his attempt at humor. “Dad and Carey want me out of there.”
“Make it three for three. Take your medical leave, file for a transfer to cover your ass, and keep your head low. Let Glass think he’s won.”
“If I leave, how do I nail the bastard?”
“You don’t. I will, because I intend to get personally involved.”
A gradual, painkiller-enhanced grin appeared on the young man’s face. “Dad always said you had a ruthless streak.”
“Never piss off an Irishman,” O’Fallon retorted. “We carry a grudge until the end of time.”
Adam sighed and leaned back in bed. “Just leave me a piece of Glass when you get done.”
O’Fallon winked. “It’s a deal.” He waved the menu. “I’ll drop this by the nurses’ station.”
“That’s what I was afraid of,” Adam replied, and then closed his eyes. O’Fallon watched him for a moment more and left the room, closing the door behind him. Avery’s son had paid a heavy price for his naïveté. Fortunately, the price didn’t involve a funeral.
As O’Fallon exited the hospital, he paused to tie a shoe, allowing himself the opportunity to study two men talking to the Asian doctor. They smelled like Internal Affairs. One of them caught his eye. O’Fallon gave a polite nod but only received a no-nonsense stare in return.
As he exited through the automatic doors to the driveway, he smirked. The sharks were circling, and it was his job to make sure that Glass was the main course.
Chapter Sixteen
Red’s Diner proved to be Gavenia’s kind of place, especially when she’d discovered the sandwich-plate-sized cinnamon rolls fresh out of the oven. Add a mug of hot chocolate, and she was set. Caffeine and sugar, always the best antidotes to bad news—and there was plenty of the latter. The article on Dazie Mazie, Hollywood’s favorite psychic, proved scathingly accurate. Jones had pulled no punches.
HIGH-TECH CHARLATAN BILKS GULLIBLE HOLLYWOOD ELITE
“Oh, Goddess,” she muttered. On the table next to her plate, her cell phone buzzed continually like a trapped wasp, countless calls from the community’s worried and outraged psychics.
It was close to eight thirty when she realized the Irish guy was late. That wasn’t his style. She dug in her purse for his card and dialed the number; it instantly rolled over to voice mail. She flipped the phone shut.
“Not good.” Drumming her fingers, she worked through her options. One resonated more than the others, so she waved down the waitress, put in another order, and asked for the check.
* * *
O’Fallon answered the door in his jeans, shirtless, unshaven; it made him look like a regular guy. Almost hunk-calendar material, except for the cluster of ugly bruises scattered along his torso in deepening shades of blue and black.
“Good morning,” she said. He just stared at her as if trying to figure out why she was at his door. “Since you stood me up, I brought you breakfast.” She hoisted the bag with a Red’s Diner logo on the side. “Just supply the coffee.”
A look of chagrin appeared and then he waved her in, yawning widely in the process.
“Woo-hoo, Tinker!” Seamus called. The cover was partially off the cage. Apparently, she’d caught both the bird and his roomie just out of bed.
“Late night. The coffee’s made,” was the barely audible response. She couldn’t tell if he was groggy or pissed. He shuffled toward the parrot’s cage, leaving her at the door to fend for herself.
Apparently no further explanation of his bad manners would be forthcoming. As she hunted through kitchen cupboards for plates, she could hear the sounds of the parrot’s breakfast being served in the living room. Seamus was his usual animated self, the Irish guy unnaturally quiet.
O’Fallon finally sat at the kitchen table. He yawned again and rubbed his eyes just like a small child. It was endearing, at odds with his tough, no-nonsense image.
“Nice outfit, by the way,” she said, sipping from a Styrofoam cup of hot chocolate. “You should wear jeans more often.”
O’Fallon shot her a glare that said he’d rather wear a negligee and high heels. He took a sip of coffee, stared as if trying to remember what he should do next, then pulled the plate of eggs, bacon, hash browns and pancakes his direction.
“Thanks,” he said. His voice had a low, throaty sort of sound. Coupled with the accent, it was sexy. Did he sound like that every morning?
“You’re rather monosyllabic.”
“Haven’t had my coffee . . . or a shower.”
“I’m on my third cup of caffeine.”
“So I hear.”
She pulled out her second breakfast of the morning, another Paul Bunyan–sized cinnamon roll.
“You eat those things?” he asked between bites of egg. She nodded. “Explains a lot.”
Gavenia watched him pack away the food, wondering why he didn’t weigh twice what he did. His chest gave her the answer; apparently the Irish guy wasn’t adverse to lifting weights. Despite a small roll over the top of his jeans, he looked darned good. She pulled herself back to the problem.
“We need to settle this Bradley thing. I can’t handle much more of this.”
O’Fallon pushed the bacon strips to the far side of the plate as if they were an abomination, and started in on the hash browns. Once they were gone, he went after the pancakes. It was a methodical, clockwise assault around the plate, consuming one type of food at a time before proceeding to the next. Gavenia wondered if he was aware of it.
“Why didn’t you eat the bacon?” she asked, curious.
?
??I gave it up for Lent.”
“Sorry, didn’t know.” A grunt was his only response.
O’Fallon perked up about halfway through the pancakes.
“Since the dog isn’t at any of the shelters, we’re going to have to broaden our search.”
“You were the one who was going to have a plan by this morning.”
His frowned grew. “I was busy last night.”
“Repo’ing cars?” she chided, knowing that would piss him off.
It did. He stopped eating, dropping his fork on the plate with a jarring clatter.
“You’re the damned psychic, or is all that just voodoo?”
She resisted the temptation to throw the remnants of her hot chocolate at him. He was back to normal—abrasive. Her cell phone buzzed, and she reached for it out of habit. As she dug into the depths of her purse, her hand brushed the embroidered bag that carried her tarot deck. She hesitated and then pulled it out, ignoring the phone call.
Why not? Bart’s voice asked from the other room. He was loitering near Seamus’s cage, studying the occupant with a great deal of interest. Seamus was returning the interest, trying to introduce himself. Apparently, animals saw Guardians. She made a note of that.
Extricating the deck from the bag, she dropped it on the table with a thump. She made room in front of her and began to shuffle the cards.
O’Fallon’s eyes widened. “I’m not so sure that’s what I had in mind.”
“Hey, you called it. Let’s see if it’s all voodoo, shall we?” She took a deep breath to calm her irritation. “Besides, as I see it, we’re running out of options. You can call the DMV and get info on cars, I can ask the Head Office to help us out.”
“Head Office?” he puzzled until she pointed upward. “Oh.” He still looked unsure.
“I’m just going to lay out the cards and see what they tell me.”
“‘The safest road to Hell is the gradual one—the gentle slope, soft underfoot,’” he quoted, collecting his fork and returning to the pancakes.
“Who said that?” Gavenia asked, continuing the shuffling process while visualizing a bouncy black puppy.
“C. S. Lewis. The Screwtape Letters. It’s about two devils who compare notes on how to tempt souls.”
She ignored the message. “The guy who wrote Chronicles of Narnia. I really liked those books.”
He cocked his head. “As I remember, the witch dies in the first one.”
“Yup, but she wasn’t one of the good guys, was she?” Gavenia said, laying out the cards one at a time, facedown.
“Ante up!” she heard from the other room. She gave O’Fallon a puzzled look.
“Seamus heard the cards shuffling; he thinks it’s poker night.”
* * *
O’Fallon rose and refilled his coffee. He’d been caught off guard when he’d found her on his doorstep after a short night’s sleep. Now that the coffee and food had done its job, he was more intrigued than upset.
His visitor turned the first card, and an annoyed expression appeared on her face. He peered over her shoulder and then gave a low whistle.
“The Lovers,” he said, reading the flowing script at the bottom of the card. He pointed to the nude couple reclining in a bower, embracing ardently, only a step away from consummation.
“It also means forming a new partnership,” Gavenia added hastily, her explanation sounding forced.
He picked up the card and studied it. “Pretty intense partnership from what I can see. And anatomically correct, as well.”
She snatched it out of his hand and put it back on the table. “For our purposes, it means a new partnership.”
“Okay; you’re the psychic,” he said, grinning. This might be more fun that he thought. He pulled his chair over as she turned the next card. “What kind of deck is that?”
The witch shot him a confused look. “I thought you didn’t know anything about this stuff.”
“I’ve seen tarot decks before. Sometimes we’d get a card left at a murder scene, but they looked different from these.”
“This is my own personal deck. I painted each one myself.” He heard pride in her voice, and it was well deserved. Every card was a masterpiece of color and design.
“They’re really nice. Must have taken forever.”
“Over a year,” she said, returning her attention to the latest card. “The King of Swords. A man who sits in judgment, someone involved in the law or in authority.” She looked toward him. “I’d say that’s you.”
“I can buy that.”
“I’m going to modify it by placing another card on top. It’ll give us a bit more information.” The new card depicted a pallid moon in a coal-black sky. Below it, in a forest, glowing eyes watched intently. “Not good,” she muttered.
“How so?”
“The Moon card usually means hidden enemies or deception.”
He pondered for a moment and then nodded. “That fits with the other case I’m working.”
She turned those brilliant blue eyes toward him. “Is that how you got your ribs worked over?” He nodded. “Then watch yourself,” she said. “The danger hasn’t diminished. If anything, it’s grown.”
No surprise there.
The next card was rather strange: a petite fairy with golden hair and a mouse wearing a crown. The fairy looked somehow familiar.
“That’s my card,” she said, smiling brightly.
Bingo. “Are you the fairy or the mouse?” he teased.
She gave him a sidelong glance. “I’ll modify it.”
A slight intake of breath came when she turned the new card, and he shivered unconsciously. A stark metal cage sat in the middle of a forest clearing. Inside was a young girl, peering out, trying to pick the massive lock that held her prisoner. In the distance he could see the backs of two figures. They had shovels and were digging what appeared to be a grave. Next to them on the ground was a shrouded figure—a body.
“Whoa,” he said, shivering involuntarily. “God, that’s . . .” The witch just stared, the blue in her eyes dulled.
Her voice came so quietly that he had to strain to hear her.
“The Entrapment card. The feeling of being ensnared, caught in a situation in which one has no control. Fear of the unknown, fear of . . . death.”
She’d intoned the words as if it were a personal litany.
“Bradley?” he asked, watching her closely.
Gavenia opened her mouth as if to immediately agree and then sighed. “I’m not sure.”
The witch flipped another card. Her left hand was shaking now with almost as much intensity as the right. The Entrapment card had clearly frightened her.
“The Water card,” she said, pointing toward a scene with a blue expanse of ocean, seabirds, and tiny boats. “It could mean a number of things.”
“And in relation to the dog?”
She didn’t answer, but modified the card. An elderly woman in a rocking chair looking expectantly at the door, as if hoping for visitors. His gran came to mind and, along with the thought of her, a twinge of guilt.
“The Patience card,” she said. This time her sigh sounded exasperated. “One more.” A young man and woman, standing under an archway. He was handing her a bunch of ripe purple grapes, she offering him a full goblet of wine. They gazed at each other with unabashed adoration.
“The Bounty or Sharing card. He offers his beloved the fruits of life, and she returns them in a new form. For barren couples I tell them this means they will have children. For lovers, I tell them to learn to give and receive of each other, to enjoy the bounty that love can bring.”
“What does that mean to us in this case?”
For a moment she looked disconcerted, and then he watched her shields fall into place like solid steel doors.
She sputtered, “I think . . . I think it means we will be successful in our search for Merlin. We’re each contributing something to the case and—” She stopped abruptly. “At least I think that’s what it mea
ns.”
Can’t lie to save your soul, can you?
In some ways, he found that refreshing. To ease the awkward moment, he asked, “So what did we learn here, other than that both of us need to be careful?”
Gavenia appeared grateful for his change of subject.
“Water,” she said, tapping the relevant card. “Janet loved the ocean; at least that’s what her sister said. Don’t the Allifords have a beach house in Malibu?”
He nodded. “You think we should check it out?”
“Why not? It’s a nice day; it’ll be a road trip.”
He rose, moving his chair back in place. “While I take my shower, give Alliford a call. We’ll need a key and a security code.”
The witch instantly perked up, as if having a plan allowed her to submerge the disturbing reading.
“Need someone to wash your back?” she jested, the shields lowering again.
He eyed her, tempted to play along. What would it be like to make love to a pagan? His ribs throbbed in response, reminding him of the impossibility of the notion. There was far more to Gavenia Kingsgrave than her bio indicated, and until he knew the meaning of the Entrapment card, he’d best be cautious.
“I’ll take a rain check on it,” he said, pointing to the bruises.
“Good point.” She gathered the cards, returning them to the embroidered bag. In the living room, Seamus began a series of catcalls worthy of a longshoreman.
“He’s paging you,” O’Fallon said.
Gavenia just rolled her eyes.
* * *
When O’Fallon appeared in the doorway to his bedroom after his shower, she stared. Self-consciously he straightened his shirt and dusted off his pants, his suit jacket draped over his right arm.
“You’re wearing that?” she blurted. “Oh, no, not happening. I refuse to go to a beach with a guy in suit. You look . . .” She waved her arms in the air, struggling for the proper word.
“Professional?” he suggested, frowning.
“No, type A. Nobody goes to the beach dressed like that, O’Fallon.”