“Thank you for your help,” he replied.
Three flights of stairs later he reached the street, where a couple of boys were playing basketball. It was so different from his childhood—big-city LA, small-town Ireland. He’d grown up innocent, believing that everyone loved him, that the world was a fair place. The bomb blast that killed his father had shattered those illusions, taught him the world was an unholy place filled with bastards who would murder you just because you were different from them.
Shaking off his melancholy, he hiked to the car, passing a pair of young Latinas in tight black capri pants and T-shirts. One giggled and said something to the other. He caught the word pelirrojo, “red,” no doubt in reference to his hair. He hoped the rest was a compliment.
O’Fallon sat in his car for some time, watching the boys in the street. No matter how much he hoped, the trail of the missing rosary kept pointing toward the cops. He turned the key in the ignition.
“At least it’s stopped raining.”
* * *
Though Gavenia purposely chose her sister’s favorite restaurant, seeking a neutral location that wouldn’t add to the stress of the evening, unease sat between them like an unwanted dinner companion. She and Ari chatted about the weather and LA traffic. Then they moved on to the astronomical cost of British housing. Superficial social conversation, nothing that dug into the marrow of their private pain.
Gavenia toyed with her dinner, her appetite nonexistent. Ari had no such problem and tackled her rare steak with bravado. She wielded her eating utensils English style, cutting the meat with the knife held in the right hand and then using the fork in her left to bring the morsel to her mouth. An efficient food delivery system, no time wasted changing utensils from one hand to the other. Just what you’d expect from a woman with a scientific mind and a doctorate in archaeology.
“So why are you such a grump?” Ari asked between mouthfuls, tired of the social banter. She’d always been the more direct of the two.
Gavenia opened her mouth to retort and then let a low sigh escape. She couldn’t really argue with that observation—she was a grump.
“I’ve got a difficult case.”
“I thought you said you didn’t have anything interesting going on right now.”
Oops, Bart chimed in as he appeared on the bench seat next to his charge. She caught your little white lie.
Gavenia paid him no heed. “I fibbed. I didn’t want to talk about it.”
Ari gave her a measured look and resumed her assault on the steak. The crimson juices oozed across the white china plate, making Gavenia queasy. She averted her eyes, studying her sister’s clothes. As usual, Ari wore head-to-toe black.
The perpetual widow, Bart observed.
“So do you want to talk about it now?” Ari asked.
Gavenia pondered and then nodded. The way things were headed, the Alliford case wasn’t going to be resolved anytime soon and her grumpy mood would only get worse. Ari might as well be in the loop.
“It’s a little boy,” Gavenia began. As she buttered a warm roll, she related Bradley’s tale. By the end of the story, Ari’s eyes were misty, her dinner ignored.
“God, that’s horrible. And his grandmother won’t help?”
“Nope. Mrs. Pearce is a block of ice.”
Ari frowned and took another sip of her red wine. “Is there anything I can do?”
Gavenia’s first instinct was to refuse, but something held her in check. Her sister was taking a tiny step out of her all-encompassing widowhood. Why not foster that?
“Yes. I’d like to know more about Mrs. Pearce. Ask a few questions, see what you can find out about her. The Hansford name should open a few doors.”
“It’s not my name, it’s the zeros behind it.” Ari retrieved her knife and fork. “I’ll see what I can find out for you.”
“Thanks.” Gavenia relaxed her posture. She’d been sitting so rigidly that her back cramped in protest.
Ari waved a hand in the air as if she’d suddenly remembered something important. “Oh, I didn’t tell you. I’ve been asked to arrange a charity auction in London to benefit a museum exhibition.”
“That sounds cool.”
“I doubt they would have bothered with me before I married Paul.”
“It’s that hefty bank account again.”
Ari nodded. “I still can’t quite accept the fact I have that much money. I keep clipping coupons.”
“So what’s it up to nowadays?”
“Nineteen or twenty mil, the last I heard. It’s ridiculous. Nobody needs that kind of money.”
Gavenia chortled. “So are you going to do the charity gig?”
Ari frowned in thought. “I’m not sure. It’s for a good cause, but—”
“Then do it. You can’t mourn Paul forever.” The second after the words tumbled out of Gavenia’s mouth, she regretted them. They could easily ruin the evening. A quick look indicated that Ari hadn’t taken the offhand comment negatively. In fact, she was nodding again.
“I know. It’s just so hard. I’ve had to learn how to handle the Trust, and they’re pushing me to join Hansford Technologies’ board of directors.”
Gavenia grinned. “Go for it. You have every right to be there.”
“I’m not sure I want to be there.” The waiter appeared and refilled their water and the basket of wheat rolls.
Gavenia snagged one. “I could live on these things.”
“So I noticed.”
“It’s better than things that bleed,” she said, pointing a butter knife at her sister’s plate.
“Leave my steak alone.” Ari sawed off another piece. “So what are you going to do while I’m checking out Mrs. Pearce?”
“Try to find Merlin, I guess. Maybe Bart will come up with a brilliant suggestion,” Gavenia said. As if on cue, her Guardian studied the print on the wall above him as if it were a priceless antique—a tactic to avoid having to comment.
“Is he here now?” Ari asked, looking around as if he was lurking behind one of the potted palms.
“Yes.” Gavenia angled her head toward her Guardian. “He’s tuning me out at present. He does that fairly often.” Her eyes rose to Paul where he hovered nearby.
“It must be weird to see them.”
“It is. They’re everywhere. I can’t get away from them.”
Ari eyed her, and Gavenia knew the next question before she asked it.
“Have you ever seen . . . Paul?”
“Yes,” Gavenia said. There was no point in telling Ari her dead husband was in constant attendance. Now was not the time.
“Is he . . . okay?” Ari asked. The specter of her husband grew more solid, his sober eyes watching Gavenia intently. Perhaps he feared what she might reveal.
“He worries about you.”
Ari bit her lip in an apparent attempt to control the tears. Gavenia reached across the table and grasped her sister’s slim hand. It was so smooth to the touch, unlike when she’d been leading excavations full-time.
“You really didn’t like him, did you?” Ari asked.
Gavenia blinked in surprise. This wasn’t a topic they’d ever explored, at least not while Paul was alive.
“We never saw eye to eye.”
“Why?”
Gavenia chose her words with precision. “I disliked how he made you give up your profession.”
Ari jerked her hand away, narrowly missing her wine glass. “He didn’t make me give up archaeology. I did that on my own.” The waiter appeared at that moment, checked on them, then retreated as if sensing something amiss.
“You made the decision, but he laid the groundwork.” As her sibling began to protest, Gavenia raised her hand for silence. “Let me finish. He pushed you to give up archaeology not because of envy or jealousy, but because he feared for your safety. It was his way of protecting you, the only way he could show you how much he loved you.”
Well said, Bart whispered. In contrast, Paul’s specter glowered.
<
br /> Ari opened her mouth as if to argue and then gave a minute nod. “I still miss him,” she said, hunting through her small purse for a tissue. Gavenia looked away, fearing her sister’s tears would trigger her own. The restaurant suddenly seemed too open. She watched a young couple in the corner, sitting so close it was hard to tell they were separate people. He was feeding her slices of cheese and she was laughing between bites in a light, high voice.
Love and loss. Why do they always go hand in hand?
Gavenia grabbed the dessert menu and thumbed through it, desperate for a distraction.
“So what’s it going to be—tiramisu or crème brûlée?” she asked.
Ari delivered a mock glare, accepting the diversion. “You didn’t eat your dinner,” she said, pointing at Gavenia’s plate.
“You sound like Auntie Lu.” Ari continued to point, shaking her head in disapproval. “Okay, so if I eat most of the pork chop, can I have some dessert?”
“It’s a deal. We’ll share some tiramisu.”
Their eyes met, and Gavenia winked. Her sister winked back.
“I’ve missed this, Pooh. We’ve been apart too long,” Gavenia said.
“I know. We’ve both lost a lot in the last year. It’s hard to know what to say.” After a sip of wine, Ari added, “Right before I flew home, I went to Wales. I stopped at the place where you had your accident.”
Gavenia dropped her fork and it bounced to the floor. Her throat tightened as the sound of grinding metal slammed into her head and then receded. Unaware of the vivid memories her words had generated, her sister continued, “I left flowers for Winston. I thought he might like that.”
Gavenia’s eyes clouded. She pulled her napkin upward to stem the tide of tears. “It’s been a hell of a year for both of us,” she whispered.
Ari’s warm hand touched her elbow in a loving gesture. “It’ll get better. It can’t possibly get any worse,” she said.
Bart sighed, tented his fingers, and whispered, Wanna bet?
Chapter Six
Although O’Fallon hadn’t served in this particular precinct, a surge of memories struck him the moment he entered the building. Typical of most squad rooms in the city, it was awash in piles of paper and binders, half-filled cups and soda bottles. The electronic chirp of telephones echoed off the faded tan walls. Two cops huddled in front of a computer terminal while another struggled with a copy machine. The fellow swore at the recalcitrant device, gave it a jarring bump with the heel of his hand, and it promptly spit out paper. The detective pumped his fist in the air as if he’d just won the lottery.
The pungent smell of overheated coffee hung in the air, perfume to O’Fallon’s nose. He’d been part of this world for over ten years. Now he was the outsider, and that meant everything to those on the other side of the line.
If they’re dirty . . . He shook his head at the thought and headed for the desk sergeant.
After explaining his purpose, O’Fallon wove his way through the desk jungle. A few of the detectives glanced up as he passed, but he didn’t recognize any of them until a familiar face appeared in the distance—a young man studying a pile of papers.
It was impossible to see the young cop’s trim figure and angular face without thinking of the first time O’Fallon had met his father. O’Fallon had been the nervous new detective, eager to prove himself, and Avery Elliot the old salt, the one with the sharp mind and a body of experience that kept O’Fallon from making a complete ass of himself. Too often it was a near thing. Now Adam Elliot was a homicide detective, just like his old man had been before Avery’s wife had died and he’d become a priest.
Adam’s partner slouched at an opposite desk, talking on the telephone, his feet in the aisle. He had graying hair and a bulldog look, in direct contrast to Adam’s handsome features.
The young cop glanced up and his eyes flashed in surprise. A grin spread across his tanned face.
O’Fallon halted by the desk and stuck out his hand. “Your dad said you’d been transferred to this precinct. I didn’t think I’d catch you in.”
Adam rose and shook his hand, his grip strong. “It’s been forever,” he replied.
“Your father’s retirement party, if I remember right.”
Adam nodded in agreement. “What brings you here?”
“I’m doing some private work for the Callendar family. Their son was the kid who hung himself over at the LeClaire.”
“Okay, that one. Bender and Coolidge were the investigating officers.” Adam pointed toward two heavyset men.
“The family’s missing a rosary; it’s an heirloom and they’d like to try to track it down,” O’Fallon said lightly. He watched the young detective’s face. The only reaction was a quick double blink of his eyes.
Adam’s partner hung up the phone and rose from his chair.
“This is Harve Glass, my partner,” Adam said, beginning the introductions. “Harve, this is—”
“So just who are you?” Glass challenged. Adam started to speak, but his partner cut him off. “You stay quiet and let him answer.” The younger detective’s jaw tightened. It sounded like a rebuke delivered to a child.
O’Fallon’s eyes narrowed. “I’m Doug O’Fallon, and once upon a time I wore a badge just like you. Except I was a lot more polite, especially to my own partner.”
Glass’s mouth twitched. “Private dicks aren’t welcome here.”
O’Fallon smirked. Tempting as it was, he decided not to make a scene. “Really? I’m shocked,” he said in a joking tone. That generated a deep frown from the cop.
“I’m not in the mood for this.”
“Funny, neither am I.”
As the two men eyed each other, an unnatural stillness crept through the room. O’Fallon knew the other detectives were watching this confrontation with a wary eye. How often did someone challenge Glass?
“Doug’s here to talk to Bender and Coolidge,” Adam interjected. To his credit, he didn’t rush the words, but made them sound nonchalant. O’Fallon gave him points for coolness under pressure.
“It’s best you leave,” Glass said, ignoring his partner.
“I will, when I’m finished.”
The man’s face reddened, and a twitch began at the corner of his mouth. “Now,” he said, pointing toward the door with a beefy hand.
O’Fallon ignored the command and turned toward his best friend’s son, letting his cold expression melt into a warm smile. “Good to see you again, Adam.” He paused and added, “I’m really sorry to see you’re stuck with an asshole for a partner.” As he turned away, an expletive exploded from Glass’s mouth. O’Fallon didn’t bother to answer, but headed like a heat-seeking missile toward the two cops in the corner.
As if Glass had set the tone for the room, they didn’t look friendly either.
In five minutes O’Fallon was back in his car with little information to show for the time spent. Detectives Bender and Coolidge denied seeing the rosary, both blaming the hotel manager. Deep in his gut, O’Fallon knew they were lying.
* * *
“About damned time!” the voice shouted.
“Yeah, yeah, give me a break,” O’Fallon grumbled as he hauled in his mail. “At least let me get in the door, will you?”
“No break, no break!” the voice shot back.
It belonged to a large African gray parrot marching along a heavy wooden pole in a sizable cage. It was a handsome bird with light-gray plumage, which terminated in magnificent red tail feathers. As O’Fallon locked the door and dumped his mail onto the spotless kitchen counter, he knew that Seamus’s keen black eyes tracked his every movement.
“Yo, dude!”
“I hear you,” he said as he scanned the pile of mail: two bills, a few catalogs, and his favorite Irish magazine. “Better than most days.”
The light on the answering machine blinked repeatedly, but he paid it no heed. Until he’d seen to Seamus, there would be no chance to hear the messages. He shut off the television; today his h
ousekeeper had left it on the History Channel.
“Spring me! Spring me!” Seamus called as O’Fallon headed for the bedroom. He ignored the bird and shucked his clothes, returning in a worn, dark-blue tracksuit. O’Fallon deftly worked the tumbler lock on the cage. Left to his own devices, the bird was a feathered Houdini.
“Seven . . . four . . . nine . . . one,” Seamus instructed.
“Yeah, I know the number,” he mumbled. Almost anything Seamus heard, he repeated. Having a bright bird wasn’t always a good thing.
O’Fallon opened the cage and fished the parrot off his perch. He fluttered for a bit as he adjusted to his new position and then worked his way up O’Fallon’s arm, one claw after the other.
“About damned time!” he shouted again.
“Yeah, yeah.” O’Fallon put the bird on the top of the recliner and returned to the cage to dish out food and water. The parrot babbled on as he made his trek, claw after claw, down the armrest.
“Incoming!” Seamus called, and then imitated the sound of a mortar round with eerie accuracy.
O’Fallon flinched. “No more History Channel for you.”
Chores complete, he settled into the chair, placing the magazine and the Kingsgrave folder on the end table for later scrutiny. A large bowl of cereal, his evening meal, was the final touch. Tonight it was one of those high-fiber sorts that he detested but his doctor insisted he eat. It balanced out the pancakes he’d devoured for breakfast.
“So, did you have a good day?” he asked the bird between crunchy mouthfuls. The parrot eyed him from the armrest, turning his head at an angle. In a claw was a bright orange carrot stub.
“Bor-ing!” the creature squawked back. It was one of his favorite lines.
“Mine wasn’t. Not boring in the least.” The moment O’Fallon put the empty bowl aside, Seamus settled into his hands for a bit of social grooming. It was their evening ritual—only now would the bird cease making an unholy racket.