“You’re out of this, Gavenia. It’s too dangerous. I don’t want you hurt,” he said, straightening up. She wasn’t listening. “Stop being stubborn. If this guy will kill a kid, he’ll be happy to off you if you get in his way.”
“That’s the breaks,” she said, taking another step down the stairs. Only two to go and she’d be on ground level and able to move quicker. “I’m in this no matter what happens.”
O’Fallon had hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but he had no choice. He strode around to the driver’s side and crawled into the car.
“Dammit, woman, I wish you’d listen,” he said, turning the key in the ignition. He heard her calling to him as she struggled down the remaining steps.
O’Fallon put the car in gear and drove away before Gavenia made the driveway. In the rearview mirror he watched her expression move from incredulity to stern resolve. His heart told him she wasn’t going to back down.
* * *
If Gavenia expected sympathy in equal proportion to the Moonbeam tea, her friend Viv wasn’t serving any. Much to her dismay, Viv had thoroughly enjoyed the tale of O’Fallon abandoning her on Gregory’s doorstep.
“He has the nerve to ask me out on a date and then strands me? Damned arrogant son of a leprechaun,” Gavenia grumbled.
“He’s just watching out for you,” Viv said, puttering around her shop.
“We’ll have to disagree on that one.” Another sip of tea. Time to move on. “So how do I find someone down . . . here?” she asked, waving her free hand to encompass downtown LA.
“Check over at the shelter. One of those guys might be able to help,” Viv recommended as she dusted under the crystal pyramids.
“Good idea. Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Maybe your brain’s a little clouded by this PI guy?”
“Not a chance,” Gavenia shot back, shaking her head vehemently.
“You’ve mentioned he looks good in blue jeans twice, hon. That’s a clue you’ve got the hots for him.”
Gavenia frowned and shook her head again. “No, that just means I’m missing out in the sex department.”
“Then why not give him a whirl? Maybe his bumper sticker was kosher and Irish do make better lovers. Either way, it’d do wonders for your attitude.”
“My attitude is just fine,” Gavenia growled.
“Providing you’re another mongoose with PMS.”
Gavenia pointed at the pyramids. “Shut up and dust.”
She took a deep inhalation of the tea’s fragrance to steady her nerves. Somewhere O’Fallon had his nose to the ground, hunting for Bradley’s killer. Part of her was pleased he was on the case; the other part wanted to find Bradley’s killer first and make the Irishman eat crow.
Tsk-tsk, so competitive, Bart remarked from his place by the kids’ fairy wands. He pointed. You should get one of these. They’re pretty cool.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Pardon?” Viv asked, looking up from her dusting.
“Sorry. Talking to Bart.”
“Is he heckling you again?”
“Of course,” Gavenia replied. She stared out the window in thought.
Viv replaced a large amethyst crystal on a nearby shelf. “I’d say he cares for you or he wouldn’t bother to keep you out of the way.”
Gavenia was momentarily confused. “Bart?”
“No, the PI.” Viv shook her head. “You do need to get laid.”
“Change the subject, please,” Gavenia demanded.
“Oooh . . . kay. Word is that some of our fellow witches are pissed that Lucy won’t let them nail that Jones jerk. You know, like rain spells on his head until he glows in the dark.”
“Real tempting. No, his karma will catch up with him.”
“That’s what your aunt said. Though there’s a lot of grumbling, they won’t cross a Wiccan elder.”
“Sensible plan. Lucy doesn’t tolerate insurrection very well.” Her Guardian still stood by the fairy wands, blowing on the feather on the top of one. Why he was so fascinated with the thing? “And ring up one of those wands. Bart seems to think he wants one.”
Thanks, Mom.
Gavenia rolled her eyes and paid the tab. She selected the appropriate wand and Bart grinned. As she reached the door and pushed it open, the triple-belled chime caught her by surprise, as if it were the first time she’d been in the shop. Glancing back toward the bookshelf, she realized she’d not completed her ritual. She’d been too riled when she’d arrived to think of it.
It was a childish thing to do anyway.
Rituals have reasons, Bart urged. He stood near the bookcase.
“Okay, whatever you want.” She crossed to the bookshelf, uncovered the fairy, and touched the little being with the wand, just to be cute.
“Happy?” she asked.
Blissfully, Bart responded.
“At least someone is.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
O’Fallon’s time with Alliford’s maid, Maria, hadn’t revealed any information that was earthshaking. The Volvo had been fine until she parked it at the grocery store. When she returned, it wouldn’t start. She’d called road service and they’d towed the vehicle to a nearby shop. The car had been forgotten for a few days in the aftermath of Bradley’s death.
O’Fallon’s trip to the auto-repair place netted the Chevy an oil change, a warning about his brake pads, and an interview with the guy who’d fixed the Volvo. Irv, the repair guy, said the car’s starter fuse had been missing, but it wasn’t uncommon for them to fall out every now and then.
Once it was replaced, the car started instantly.
“Too simple,” O’Fallon muttered. Especially in the light of a potential kidnapping. If Maria’s car had worked perfectly, there would have been no opportunity to snatch the kid.
O’Fallon’s next stop was to visit Bradley’s friend, Julianne. Her house was even bigger than Alliford’s, and that was saying something for Bel Air. The maid was Slavic, with a heavy accent and a frigid, no-nonsense attitude. She scrutinized O’Fallon as if he were KGB rather than a private detective. It took a phone call to Gregory to smooth his way inside the fortress.
Bradley’s friend sat in an armchair swinging her legs back and forth. Her dark-brown hair was in pigtails. Although Julianne wore a dress, from the way she acted O’Fallon suspected she’d rather be in jeans and playing in the dirt. Her mother hovered nearby, an anxious look on her face. He’d already had to promise the moon to talk to this kid, and now he had to earn the little girl’s trust.
“Bradley’s father wanted me to ask you some questions. Is that okay?” The girl fiddled with a pigtail. It reminded him of Gavenia when she was nervous. “I need to know some things about Bradley.” More braid fidgeting, then a quick nod.
“Why did he walk home with you that day?”
When the girl gave her a mom a worried look, Mrs. Foster returned a reassuring nod.
“He wanted his picture, the one he painted,” Julianne said.
“What picture?” O’Fallon asked, confused.
“Maria’s picture.”
“Why was the picture here?”
“It was a surp’ise.”
Kid logic. O’Fallon addressed the girl’s mother. “Did you know about this?”
“It’s the first I heard of it. When Bradley was here, they would go to the playhouse. Sometimes they’d paint.”
“Why didn’t you tell your mom about the picture?”
The little girl dropped her gaze to her shoes. “I forgot.”
“To tell her?”
A shake of the head. “To take it to school.”
Mrs. Foster read between the lines. “Sweetie, it’s not your fault Bradley got hurt. It’s nobody’s fault.”
Except the bastard who killed him. “What did the picture look like, Julianne?” O’Fallon asked.
“Blue and red flowers,” the girl said. “I got him a . . .” She frowned as if unsure of the word and then twirled her hand in a ci
rcle. “You know, Mommy.”
“No, I don’t, sweetie.”
“What Daddy does with his drawings,” the girl insisted. She made the hand circle again.
Mrs. Foster thought for a moment. “Oh, you mean one of the tubes?”
The child nodded vigorously. “We put it in there so it wouldn’t get hurt.
“Tube?” O’Fallon asked, not quite following.
Mrs. Foster explained. “My husband’s an architect. He stores his blueprints in those cardboard packing tubes. Apparently Julianne gave one to Bradley.”
O’Fallon jotted down a note.
“Did Bradley take the picture with him?”
A nod.
“So what happened to the picture?” O’Fallon mused.
The girl shook her head and shrugged. Then she frowned and said, “Maybe the man took it.”
O’Fallon and the child’s mother traded looks.
“What man, sweetie?” Mrs. Foster asked.
“The man,” the girl insisted. “He followed us.”
Before her mother could react, O’Fallon raised a hand, gesturing for her to let him resume the questioning. He made sure to keep his voice level and calm. “What did this man look like?”
“I dunno. He was in a big car. He drove by us.”
“More than once?”
A nod.
“What kind of car?”
A shrug. “Big. Like Mrs. Elton’s.”
Before he could ask, Mrs. Foster replied, “She means an SUV.”
“What color was the big car, Julianne?” O’Fallon asked, his heart picking up speed.
“Black.”
Mrs. Foster’s mouth opened in surprise. She’d just made the connection between the car cited in the little boy’s accident and the man who’d followed the children.
“Did Bradley know the man?” O’Fallon asked.
Another shrug.
“Did he stop and talk to Bradley.”
“No.”
“Have you seen the car before?”
“No.”
He was running out of questions. “Is there anything else you can tell me?” he asked gently.
The girl nodded. “Merlin growled at him.”
“Did Merlin do that a lot?”
“No. Just at him.”
O’Fallon rubbed his chin. Why would the dog react like that? Another puzzle.
“Thank you, Julianne. You’ve been very helpful,” he said, standing. He hesitated and then added, “Do you like cats?”
The little girl nodded and her face brightened.
“Mr. Alliford has a new kitten at his house. His name is TJ. I bet he’d love to meet you.”
The girl gave her mother a hopeful look. “Can we see him, Mommy?”
“Sure, sweetie. We can do that. You can play with TJ and I can see how Bradley’s father is doing.”
Mrs. Foster didn’t speak again until they reached the front door. Right before he stepped outside, she caught his arm. Her voice dropped low. “You don’t think this was a hit-and-run, do you?”
Perceptive lady. “No, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t spread that around.”
“Do you think it was some sort of pervert?”
He felt her fear: What if this bastard comes after my daughter?
“I don’t think so. I think this was an attempt to extort money from Mr. Alliford. But, to be on the safe side, I’d be extra cautious for the next little while.”
She seemed to think that over and then offered, “I only met Janet Alliford once. She was flying high that day, barely coherent. That’s why I encouraged Bradley to come here to play, so he could have some time away from that.”
“That was good of you,” O’Fallon said.
The woman sighed and shifted her gaze back toward the interior of the house. “I’m not sure how Julianne is going to deal with this, especially if it wasn’t an accident. She’ll have to know that someday.”
“Children are very resilient,” O’Fallon said. “They always surprise you.”
“I hope so. Let me know if I can be of any further help.”
“I will.”
“Oh, Mr. O’Fallon?”
He stopped in midturn. “Yes?”
“If it wasn’t an accident . . .” Another look inside and then back. “Crucify the bastard, will you?”
He crooked a smile at the matron’s ruthless streak.
“I’ll be pleased to do just that, ma’am.”
* * *
Red’s Diner was only half full, a breather before the supper hour. A businessman was ensconced in one of the booths, wired every way technologically possible. O’Fallon kept the smirk to himself, knowing one poorly placed cup of coffee would ruin the guy’s day.
He chose his usual booth, ordered some coffee, and tried to calm himself by scanning his notes. The list of potential suspects was growing exponentially, since a Bel Air household resembled a fiefdom. With the window washers, trash haulers, gardeners, pool people, security folks, painters, dog groomers, and so on, the possibilities were nearly endless.
O’Fallon sighed. “Too many unknowns,” he muttered. He could waste a lifetime trying to narrow the field. He flipped back a few pages, tapping his pen against an underlined name. “Weakest link first,” he said. “Janet Alliford.”
The diner’s door swung open and two men entered, engaged in an animated conversation. From the cut of their clothes he pegged them as the homicide detectives who’d investigated Bradley’s death: Detectives Zimansky and Larsen. The news he had for them wasn’t going to be an icebreaker. Cops never liked to hear they’d overlooked clues that turned an accident into a full-blown homicide. Especially when the victim was a six-year-old child.
Zimansky resembled a bedraggled bloodhound, ready to hang up his badge and call it a career. Larsen was the younger of the two.
“O’Fallon?” the older cop asked.
He gave an acknowledging nod and the pair slid into the seat opposite him. The waitress appeared, took the drink order, and returned with the beverages in record time.
“If I hadn’t heard of you,” Zimansky drawled lazily, his accent closer to Tennessee than California, “I’d tell you to go to hell and enjoy the ride.”
O’Fallon offered a benign grunt. At least he had the veteran cop’s attention. “I didn’t like folks second-guessing my work, either.”
Zimansky gave a slow nod. “So what’s this about?”
Time to dangle a bit of bait. “I have a . . . source . . . that says the Alliford kid’s hit-and-run wasn’t accidental.”
A snort of derision came from Larsen. Zimansky, on the other hand, nonchalantly stirred more sugar into his glass of iced tea. By O’Fallon’s count, he was up to three packets; a true Southerner.
“Why hasn’t this source come forward?” Larsen demanded.
“It’s an odd situation. You’re just going to have to trust me that it’s worth your time.”
The younger cop shook his head. “We don’t owe you jack.”
Zimansky reached for another packet of sugar, tore it open, and dropped the contents into his tea. The granules sheeted downward and then spun in a leisurely clockwise swirl as he blended the concoction. It was a subtle indication he was willing to listen, if only for a brief period of time.
Zimansky glanced up from his mixing. “Why’d you pull the pin?”
O’Fallon should have expected the question. Cops always wanted to know why one of their own took early retirement.
“The work got to me,” he replied honestly.
“Scuttlebutt said you starting seeing things, things that weren’t there,” Zimansky replied, his dark-brown eyes intense. He took a sip of the tea and nodded his approval. Apparently he’d found the proper proportion of colored water and sugar.
“I took some leave to get my head straight, then decided to make it permanent, if that’s what you mean.”
“You were on the Morelli killings, weren’t you?” the senior detective asked.
&n
bsp; “Yes.” O’Fallon took a sip of his coffee. It was vastly superior to the stuff at the car-repair shop. “That’s when I started having problems.”
“Did the shrinks help?” the bloodhound asked.
“No. They talked a lot of bullshit about how I should get a life outside the force.”
Zimansky huffed in derision. “They’ve got no clue what’s it like. I’ve been that way myself. They said I talk slow because I don’t have any self-esteem.”
“You seem fine in that department,” O’Fallon observed. He’d already made Zimansky’s type: the quiet cop who studied everything before drawing a conclusion. Like Avery. Slow speech rarely meant a slow mind.
“Okay, you got five minutes,” the detective said. “After that, we’re gone and you’re paying for the drinks.”
“Fair enough.” O’Fallon took another jolt of his coffee, playing it nonchalant. He didn’t want to sound desperate, though that was exactly how he felt. The cops had to sign back onto the case, or Bradley’s killer might never be found.
He pulled his mind back to the task at hand. “I believe it was someone the kid knew; that’s why they had to kill him when the kidnapping went south.”
“How can you be sure?” Zimansky asked, leaning across the table. “Did you have one of those . . . visions?”
Larsen snorted. It appeared to be his favorite response. As the waitress sailed by, the junior cop elevated his cup for a refill.
Play it cool. “You’ll have to take my word; it was someone who knew the kid.” They eyed each other, and then the bloodhound leaned back.
“Go on.”
“The kidnapper knew the Alliford family routine, knew the maid bought groceries on Tuesdays. By insuring she had car trouble while she was at the store, the kidnapper could pick up the kid and vanish before anyone was the wiser.”
“Why do you think the car was tampered with?” Larsen asked.
“I spoke with the guy who serviced it. He said the starter fuse was missing. Sometimes they fall out of their own accord—and sometimes, they have help.”
Zimansky tapped his chin in thought. “Interesting.”
“Bradley walked home, then to Julianne Foster’s house.”