Tangled Souls (17 page)

“I see. Your father didn’t mention him.”

“Dad’s still dealing with the whole gay thing. It’s even harder now that he’s a priest.”

O’Fallon nodded. “I understand. How long have you been together?”

“Six years.”

He snorted. “God, that’s longer than either one of my marriages.”

That elicited a raised eyebrow. Unconsciously, the young man had copied some of his father’s trademark gestures.

“Carey doesn’t like me being a cop, but I can’t leave the force. I’ve wanted to be a police officer from the moment I saw Dad in dress blues.”

“Then do what is important to you, but just do it in another precinct.”

“That might not be enough.”

“Ah, I see,” O’Fallon said. Irony twisted in his gut. He’d had this same conversation with Avery as his two marriages failed. Now he was on the receiving end.

“I wonder if we’ll be able to hold it together,” was the young man’s solemn admission.

“Keep talking. That was my mistake. I held it all inside, and it killed any chance we had.”

Adam gave a resigned nod. He pointed at O’Fallon’s empty bottle. “Want another one?”

“Yeah, I do.” After Adam left the room, O’Fallon gave a low whistle. Apparently it didn’t matter if you were gay or straight—carrying the shield shredded lives.

There had been more talk than beer. In two hours O’Fallon learned a great deal about Adam Elliot: he idolized his father, loved the Dodgers, and had always wanted to sail around the world. His stint in the navy had only deepened that desire. His lover was a hard-charging civil rights attorney, and they lived on a boat. A young man with dreams, not unlike O’Fallon when he was thirty.

They paused their discussion in the middle of the Onion’s parking lot. Adam clicked his remote, and an SUV two rows away flashed its lights and gave a welcoming chirp.

“My car’s that way,” O’Fallon said, gesturing in the opposite direction. “Keep in touch. I’m willing to be a sounding board, if you need one.”

The young cop offered a sad smile. “Thanks, I appreciate it. Dad’s good at listening, but he’s got enough hassles with the church and all that.”

O’Fallon leaned against a nearby car, studying his companion. “Don’t ever doubt that you’re the most important thing in his life. The church owns a big piece of him, but you’re his son. You come first.”

The smile grew brighter. “That’s good to hear. I’ve always wanted to make him proud.”

“You already have. You had the guts to let the world know you’re gay.”

There was a moment of hesitation, and Adam then asked, “What was it like when he told you?”

O’Fallon rummaged through his memory. “We were at breakfast. He was really tense, and I knew it didn’t have anything to do with our current case. He just came out and said, ‘Adam’s gay.’ He asked me what I thought he should do.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told he might not want to plan on any grandkids, but everything else would be the same. You’re still his son, no matter what.”

Adam looked away, and O’Fallon thought he saw a mist in the young man’s eyes. “I always wondered how much it hurt him. He never said.”

“It did in some ways, but it didn’t in others.”

“It’s the way I am,” the detective said, looking back.

O’Fallon nodded. “God fashions us to His own ends.” A subtle beep from his watch announced the top of the hour—midnight. “I’d best be going.”

“Thanks for the conversation.”

“Not a problem. Call if you want to talk. Or you can come over and meet my roommate, Seamus.” O’Fallon waited a moment before he delivered the punch line. “He’s a parrot.”

“Oh . . .” A quick smile flashed, one that reminded O’Fallon of Avery. “Does he speak Irish?”

“Sure does. And swears like a cop.”

“I’d like to meet him.”

“That can be arranged.”

Adam stuck out his hand and they shook firmly.

“Watch your back,” O’Fallon advised.

“I will.” Adam turned and trudged across the parking lot toward the SUV, his shoulders hunched as if he was deep in thought.

O’Fallon wove his way through the cars until he reached his Chevy. It seemed like a wreck compared to the newer ones around to it. As he put the key in the lock, he heard a slight crunching sound. On instinct, he lurched sideways. A dark object flew past his head, impacting the roof with a solid thump. The driver’s-side rear window exploded in a hailstorm of glass.

Before he could react, a fist caught him in the gut, and as he doubled over, another shot into his ribs. He swung blindly and connected with someone’s midsection. Someone shouted, and then an impact in the center of his back sent him to his knees.

“Stay the fuck out of it, asshole. This is your wake-up call. You got it?” a voice snarled near his ear. A kick to his right ribs made him cry out. He slumped to the ground.

O’Fallon’s stomach rebelled. He rolled to his side and lost the expensive beer. Through the roaring in his head he heard the sound of a car peeling onto the street. A pair of shoes came within his vision.

“Holy shit, O’Fallon, what the hell was that?”

Dunston.
O’Fallon inwardly groaned.
Of all people.
With the man’s aid, he made it to his knees and then to his feet. He leaned against his car, sucking in deep swallows of air to keep the rest of the beer down. Dunston hovered a short distance away, his date a few steps back sporting a wide-eyed expression.

“What the hell happened?” his rescuer demanded.

“Just a warning,” O’Fallon said, wiping the blood from the corner of his mouth. “Teaches me to play it straight.”

“Why do we have to do anything?” Gavenia asked.

“But you did a reading for him.”

“Who?”

A sigh echoed down the line. “Bill Jones. You know, the columnist guy.”

“Columnist guy?” Gavenia stopped dead in her tracks, casting her eyes around the room. No Bart. That wasn’t a good sign.

“Didn’t you see the paper?” Branwen asked.

A thick knot of dread formed in her chest. “No, I’ve been busy with other things.”

“The first article is a teaser, how
so-called
psychics trick the defenseless public by telling them all sorts of lies and bilking them out of their Social Security checks.”

“Does it name anyone?” Gavenia asked, sinking into an armchair. She licked at the ice cream before it trailed down her wrist.

“Not in this article, but tomorrow he promises to relate his experience with Dazie Mazie.”

Gavenia snorted. Miss Mazeline was one of LA’s more infamous psychics—infamous because of her A-list Hollywood clients and her complete lack of anything resembling a psychic gift. What she lacked in true psychic expertise, she made up with impressive high-tech gimmickry.

“She deserves to get nailed,” Gavenia said. “I went to one of her séances. What a show.” Bart had collapsed on the floor, rolling in laughter. It had been nearly impossible to get him to leave, he’d found the evening so hilarious.

“It won’t matter. They’ll lump all of us together.”

Gavenia’s chest tightened. “I told him something he didn’t like.”

“Jones?”

“Yeah. Damn, this isn’t good. Lucy doesn’t want anything to cast doubt on the shelter.”

“You don’t think this will affect that, do you?” Branwen asked.

Gavenia sank further into the chair, leaning back, ice cream forgotten. “I hope not.”

“Do you think Lady Lucinda knows?”

Gavenia heard the unspoken plea behind the question. The majority of the Wiccan community regarded her aunt with unabashed awe and always referred to her as Lady Lucinda. Gavenia held the inside edge as the elder’s niece. Bad news should come from her.

She sighed. “I’ll let her know.”

“Thanks!” Branwen didn’t bother to conceal her relief.

Gavenia disconnected the phone and resumed her ice-cream fix. Her aunt would want a straightforward assessment of the situation. She glanced at her watch. It was almost ten. She’d grab another ice-cream bar and make the trip to the Wiccan shelter.

Some things were better done in person.

* * *

Mrs. Pearce’s maid opened the front door and stared at O’Fallon with wide eyes and an open mouth. O’Fallon knew how he looked—he’d seen himself in the mirror this morning. His right cheek was bruised and swollen, and his lip had split open. Fortunately, the rest of the damage was under his clothes. On the way to Palm Springs, he’d dropped his favorite suit at the cleaners, who’d assured him the bloodstains could be removed. It was a pity his ribs couldn’t be repaired so easily.

“Douglas O’Fallon to see Mrs. Pearce,” he said in a strong voice. It was time to end this nonsense and focus on more important things.

Mrs. Pearce raised a thin eyebrow at his appearance. “I trust you weren’t involved in some petty brawl that will find its way into the papers.”

“No, I somehow forgot to make a police report.”

She seemed mollified by that. “I wish to assign you another task, Mr. O’Fallon. I want you to find my daughter.”

“What about Ms. Kingsgrave?”

“I suspect you will find that both matters are interrelated, that my son-in-law and that woman are behind my daughter’s disappearance.”

“Disappearance? I just saw Janet yesterday.”

“What?” the woman sputtered, rising from behind that fortress of a desk. Grim satisfaction spread within him—he’d actually surprised the old dragon.

“She was at the Alliford place trying to shake money out of her husband for drugs.”

Mrs. Pearce’s eyes grew cold. “My daughter does not have a drug habit, Mr. O’Fallon.”

He shook his head, not allowing her the delusion. “She was strung out.”

“No, she wasn’t. Is she still in Bel Air?”

“I dropped her in Skid Row
.
”

“Why would you let her go there?” the woman fumed.

“That’s where she wanted to go.”

Mrs. Pierce shuddered and sank back into her leather chair.

“I want you to bring her here. I do not care how you accomplish it. I have a facility willing to take her.”

There it was—a royal edict: find the wayward princess, drag her back to the castle, and we’ll lock her in the turret for her own good.

“Are you suggesting I kidnap her?” O’Fallon asked.

“If that’s what it takes.”

“Kidnapping is a federal offense,” he observed, wondering how far this woman would go to get her own way.

“You will have the best lawyers and a healthy bonus, if it comes to that.”

O’Fallon grinned. “How wonderful. I’ll be rich. Of course, I’ll be in prison with some folks who’d love to settle scores, but hey, you just can’t have everything.”

Mrs. Pearce glared. “I want my daughter off the streets. This time I’ll have her committed. It’s the best way to get her treatment.”

Apparently the princess-in-the-turret analogy wasn’t too far-fetched. He wondered if a stray prince might show up to rescue her someday. But first, he’d have to slay the dragon. . . .

“Will you bring her here?” Mrs. Pearce asked, rising from her chair.

“Not unless she asks me to.”

“Then you’re off this case.”

He nodded, pleased at how this had fallen out.

“Actually, I wrote you off yesterday. Ms. Kingsgrave’s totally on the level.” His former client seemed bewildered. “Surprises you, doesn’t it? Well, that’s two of us.” He marched to the door. “Oh,” he said, turning, “the one-week retainer is nonrefundable. I’ll let myself out.”

The woman didn’t reply as she reached for her telephone, her face shading into a dark crimson. It wasn’t her best color.