Tangled Souls (16 page)

“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.”

“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.

“Ever been to a gay bar before?” the young detective asked.

“More than once. But always on duty.”

“Did you get hit on tonight?”

“No. But one guy liked my hair.”

“Disappointed?” Adam challenged, as if spoiling for a fight.

O’Fallon grinned, not willing to take the bait. “Not really. My taste swings toward uptight Catholic matrons.” The witch flittered through his mind again. To distract himself, he took another sip of beer. “So what’s up?”

Adam leaped right in, as if he’d had trouble keeping his emotions bottled up.

“I don’t appreciate you talking to Dad about the precinct. He’s got enough on his mind without worrying about me.”

“Avery already knew the situation. Old cops never completely unplug from the network.”

“I can handle this on my own,” the young man retorted, his face marred by a deep frown.

“I have no doubt you can, but sometimes you just have to look at a situation and decide if it’s worth the hassle.”

“It’ll work out.” Adam’s voice sounded unsure, despite the patina of bravado.

“Cops can be the best of angels or the worst of devils. You’re in a dangerous situation. Sometimes your own can be the enemy.”

“I’m going to stay. I’m not a quitter,” the young man insisted. His body tensed, his knuckles white where they gripped the beer bottle.

“That’s obvious. I’m just saying it would be better if you go somewhere you don’t have to fight the bastards you work with.”

“Not all of them are dirty.”

“No, but your partner is, and if he goes down, you’ll have a hell of a time proving you weren’t in on the take.”

Adam’s eyes shifted down to the green tablecloth, and he studied it for a time. O’Fallon pressed on, sensing a breach in the young man’s defenses.

“Internal Affairs will ream you just to get to him. They won’t care if you’re clean. And believe me, your name and sexual orientation will be in the papers when it goes to trial. You’ll hurt your career, your father, and your . . . fellows all at the same time. Is this really worth all that?”

The young cop shifted the beer bottle, creating new rings on the tablecloth, deep in thought.

O’Fallon continued. “I’ve seen what can happen in your situation. I don’t want you eating your gun someday just because of those bastards. You’re too good of a cop.”

The young man’s eyes raised, and O’Fallon thought he saw a glimmer of gratitude.

“I used to be.”

“You still are. You’ve got a chance to be every bit as good as your father. Just the get the hell out of there.”

The young man’s eyes narrowed. “You really think they’d hurt one of their own?”

O’Fallon took a long swig of his beer to let the tension play out. “I’d bet on it. Glass is a malicious SOB. I saw it in his eyes. He’d tear you apart and enjoy every moment of it.”

Adam seemed to ponder this observation while shredding the label on his beer bottle with a fingernail.

“Dad said you found the kid’s rosary. This evening, I overheard one of detectives saying you’d bought it at a pawnshop near the precinct.”

“Those guys are more plugged in than I had realized.” A disturbing thought arose. “I hope they don’t think you fed that to me.” He tried to remember what the other customer examining the pawnshop’s guitars had looked like. Had he been an off-duty cop?

Adam shrugged. “I don’t know what they think. Glass doesn’t tell me anything, just treats me like I’m a moron.”

“Keep your head down and get the hell out of there.”

“Carey’s been saying the same thing.”

“Carey?”

Adam gave a faint smile. “He’s my . . . significant other.”