My Fallen Saint Page 13

  Still, I hadn’t expected to have company. Not that I mind. I just expected to have the place to myself, and I wonder where I should interview Ronan when he arrives so as not to disturb my neighbor.

  “The Research Room’s closed to walk-ins on the weekend,” Tamra explains. “Appointments are scheduled at my discretion or Mr. Saint’s. This is Christopher Doyle. Mr. Doyle, Ellie Holmes.”

  He pushes back from his chair and leans over the table, his hand extended. I shake, trying to remember where I’ve heard his name, but I can’t place it, and tell him so.

  “Not surprised. I’ve only had the one book so far. That hardly makes me a household name.”

  “Mr. Doyle is researching a thriller,” Tamra says.

  “The premise centers around the rehabilitation of foot soldiers in organized crime rings.”

  “Foot soldiers?”

  “The guys working the street. The pleebs. Folks who were maybe born into it, sucked in by friends, whatever. But they’re the ones who get caught in the brunt of the action.”

  He’s right. The guys on the street are the ones most frequently caught in the law enforcement net. “And it’s a thriller?” I ask.

  “Sure. Those guys don’t want to be there—it’s like being drafted. That’s why rehabilitation efforts tend to be very effective for them. Just push them back to the good side, right?”

  I nod.

  “But what if someone is only pretending? He’s been rehabbed—and celebrated for it—but he’s a walking time bomb.” He grins, obviously into his idea.

  “Not bad,” I admit. “I’d read that.”

  “Well, that’s one sale in my pocket,” he says, and the three of us laugh.

  Tamra gets me set up, and I dive into the foundation’s files on both Myers and the non-confidential material on the children the foundation has helped.

  She also pulls information on the Nevada human trafficking ring that Devlin and I will be talking about on Monday. I plan to start plowing through those boxes as soon as I finish the article for Roger.

  After that, I’m going to ask Tamra if the foundation has files on The Wolf.

  I’m deep into research when Ronan Thorne joins me, then suggests we move to the break room so that we can have coffee and not disturb Doyle, who’s still taking notes like crazy.

  “I wasn’t on the team to clear Myers’ house,” Thorne says. “Only law enforcement went in. They wanted to be squeaky clean on procedure and the chain of evidence. But I was outside in case they needed backup, and then once they started bringing those kids out…”

  He trails off, his face so full of pain it makes my chest ache. “Ronan? Mr. Thorne?”

  “Sorry.” His voice is thick. “It’s rough. With kids involved, I mean.”

  “It is.”

  He clears his throat but doesn’t speak. I’m not sure if he thinks we’re done, or if his words are blocked by emotion.

  Just as I’ve decided he’s not going to say anything else, he continues. “Those kids. It was like they were shadows of themselves. The foundation’s done an amazing job helping them, as have the organizations we support. They’re doing better than was expected. All of them,” he adds, and I think of Sue and nod.

  “But what they went through…” He closes his eyes for a moment, then rallies and describes what he saw once the house was cleared. The squalor. The stench. He gives me more than I want to hear, but what I need to make the story deep enough to truly explain what happened to the kids.

  “If I’d had the chance,” he says at the end, “I would have put my hands around that bastard’s neck and not stopped squeezing until every bit of life had drained out of him.”

  I nod and shiver. Not because I disapprove, but because I understand exactly how he feels.

  “Thank you,” I say softly. “I know that was hard. Unless you have something to add, I think we’re done.”

  “Just this—that you can’t understand the torment unless you’ve witnessed something like it. And for that reason, I hope that no one reading your article understands it at all.”

  Now my throat is thick, because I can’t help but think that the something like it that he witnessed wasn’t the raid on Myers’ house, but something that came before. Something that’s the driving force behind his consulting and private security jobs.

  I don’t ask him, of course, but I will ask Devlin. Not because I’m nosy, but because in one conversation, I’ve come to like this Nordic god of a man with the wounded soul.

  I thank him again and we both stand. We’re about to step out of the break room when he says, “Listen, there’s one more thing.”

  “Sure. What is it?” I fish my pen out of my pocket, ready to take notes.

  “It’s Saint. I want to make sure you understand that he needs to be focused right now.”

  “I’m not following.”

  He sighs. “Look, Ellie. I like you. But he’s my closest friend, and you’re a distraction.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “He told me you two had a thing a while back. What he didn’t tell me was that it gutted him when it ended, but that’s clear enough. But it did end, and he’s made peace with that. Don’t go making it complicated.”

  I open my mouth to rip into him, decide that cooler heads will prevail, and tamp down on my anger. Or try to. I’m sure my words are cold as ice when I say, “I’m writing an article about the Devlin Saint Foundation, so he’s a bit on my radar. If Saint thinks that’s distracting, he can tell me to his face. And trust me. I have no intention of complicating anything.”

  “Hey, I’ve said my piece. Now we’ll let the chips fall where they may.”

  And then he turns and walks out the door, leaving me behind to wonder what the hell just happened.

  More than that, he’s made me question if maybe Alex’s departure all those years ago really did hurt him as much as it hurt me.

  But if that’s the case, then why the hell doesn’t he simply tell me the truth?

  Chapter Seventeen

  I have my laptop out and am deep into drafting the article when Devlin comes in. Christopher looks up briefly, but he’s got his earbuds in and returns so quickly to the folder he’s scanning, that I assume he’s fully in the zone.

  “I spoke with Ronan,” I say, keeping my voice flat and level.

  “Good. I haven’t seen him today. He helped?”

  I study his face, trying to decide if he really has no idea that Ronan classified me as a distraction, but I see nothing.

  That may not mean anything, though. Once upon a time, I could read his expressions. Now, not so much.

  We are, however, being civil to each other, and since he’s essentially handed me a rock-solid article on a platter, I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt and assume that Ronan is being a protective prick all on his own.

  “Yeah,” I tell him. “Talking with him definitely made the article better.” And that, at least, is completely true. “Thank you. Considering I was only assigned to cover a press conference, I’m going to impress the shit out of my editor.”

  “You’re welcome. And I’m glad I’m on your good side at the moment, because there’s been a change of plans.”

  I lean back. “Do not tell me you’re cancelling tomorrow’s interview.”

  “Not cancelling. Moving.”

  I sigh. “To when?”

  “Actually, the better question is to where.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “You want to write about the work we’ve done in connection with the disbanding of the Nevada ring? Come with me to Nevada.”

  I start to speak, but he continues.

  “I have to go to Vegas tomorrow. Unfortunately, it’s unavoidable. Which means I have to postpone our interview unless you join me. You can take the files on the plane, work in the room when I’m out, and have the opportunity to visit the foundation’s local office.”

  “Room,” I repeat.

  “We’ll be staying at The Phoenix,” he
says, and I shake my head, not knowing what that means.

  “It’s a hotel and casino on The Strip. You’ll have your own room.”

  I stare at him, not sure I’m fully understanding. “You’re inviting me on this trip and basically giving me full access? And no strings? Why?”

  “Because the story is important and deserves to be told. The more good press the foundation receives, the more money we can raise and the more people in need will reach out to us. Which means it’s in my interest to help you not only get your story, but a full understanding of how the foundation functions as well.”

  He doesn’t say anything else, but I hear the rest of it nonetheless—because as soon as you’re done with your research, you can leave Laguna Cortez.

  And you know what? Maybe that’s reason enough for me to say yes.

  So I do.

  “Whatever you’re making smells amazing,” I call as I drag myself out of my bedroom around nine-thirty Monday morning.

  “Chocolate chip muffins,” Brandy hollers back, and I immediately start to salivate. “And a package came for you.”

  In the kitchen, Brandy can beat most any baker I know. And she almost always has fresh cookies and muffins. All her life, she’s been able to eat whatever she wants and her clothes still fit the same. As someone who goes up a pant size if I gain three pounds, I used to hate her for it. Now, I’m only insanely jealous.

  And I’m definitely eating a muffin.

  I yawn as I reach the kitchen. I got my article to Roger in plenty of time, but then I’d stayed up late into the night following a rabbit trail of research on The Wolf. Just basic internet stuff, but there’s a lot of it. And as Chief Randall said, pretty much the entire world knows that Daniel Lopez was The Wolf, but nobody’s ever proved it.

  Since he’s dead now, I’m assuming nobody’s going to bother.

  I grab a seat at the counter near the package and mutter, “Coffee?”

  Brandy laughs, then taps the side of her mug. “Herbal tea.”

  I groan. “Remind me how we’re friends?”

  “Because I’m going to start boiling water for your coffee. What’s in the package?”

  “I called Roger before the gala and had him get in my apartment and send me my mom’s diaries.”

  Her brow furrows. “Nostalgia?”

  “Uncle Peter,” I say, and she tilts her head, looking at me sympathetically.

  “You think he really might have been dealing.” She says it as a fact, not a question. “And for a long time.”

  “Wow. It’s like you’re my best friend or something. You know me so well.”

  I’d brought her up to speed after the gala. Well, up to speed about Peter. I hadn’t known what to say about Alex. I still don’t.

  She points a batter-smeared spatula at me. “And don’t you forget it. What are you wearing for your trip to Vegas?” She moves to the sink, drops the spatula, and starts to fill the kettle. “Have you decided?”

  “I told you yesterday. It’s not a date. It’s work.”

  “Are you sure?” She waggles her eyebrows. “He followed you to the bar, remember?”

  I sigh, wishing I’d bit the bullet and told Brandy about Alex when we’d talked Friday night. But I didn’t know how to start, and it had seemed like too much drama on top of the Peter revelation.

  And even though I’d resolved to tell her last night after he invited me on this trip, I’d stayed late in the Research Room long after Doyle had gone. Brandy’d been wiped by the time I got home, and so I only told her about the Vegas jaunt.

  Or, hell, maybe I’d just been making excuses.

  No time like the present…

  “Listen,” I say, as I circle the island, aiming for the instant coffee jar. “This is kind of—ah!”

  I jump back at the same time I realize that the form lying headless on the floor is Lamar.

  He slides out from under the sink his brow furrowing as he looks me up and down. “Where are you going? And do I even have to guess who supposedly isn’t a date?”

  “Objection, your honor. Badgering the witness.”

  He scowls, but I turn away, busying myself with pouring boiling water onto coffee crystals as I breathe a sigh of relief that I hadn’t blurted out the truth about Devlin to Brandy.

  I frown at Brandy. “Why didn’t you tell me he was here?”

  “I did. I called out to you when he got here. What’s the big deal? It’s not like you came prancing out of your room naked.”

  “More’s the pity,” Lamar says, and I shoot him a scowl as I load the coffee up with cream—always in the first cup of the day so that I can ingest it as quickly as possible—and take a long, delicious swallow of the magical elixir.

  “What are you doing on the floor, anyway?” I ask, once that first hit has my brain cells firing.

  “The disposal’s not working,” Brandy says. “I asked him to refer a plumber, and he’s who showed up.”

  “Very chivalrous of you,” I tell Lamar, turning and glancing down to where he’s now sitting upright on the ground.

  “You haven’t answered my question.”

  Before I can tell him that it’s none of his business, Brandy chimes in. “She’s going to Vegas with Devlin Saint.”

  “Oh, Jesus, Ellie.” Lamar wipes his hands on his jeans as he stands. “Have you got issues with your hearing? Or are you just filtering out what I say?”

  Brandy looks between us. “What’s he talking about?”

  “At the gala,” I explain. “Mr. Chivalry here told me that he’s concerned that Saint has one of those reputations. He fears I’ll be scandalized and end up a spinster living in a house filled with twenty-seven cats if I associate with him.”

  “He fears,” Lamar begins, “that Saint is the kind of man who takes what he wants.”

  “So do I,” I remind him. “And the bottom line is that I’m going with him to see the work the foundation is doing in Nevada in person. It’s my job, remember? As simple as that.”

  “Nothing is simple with that man.”

  “Fine. Consider me warned. But it’s not your call to make, is it?” My words are harsh. Cold. And very slowly, Lamar shakes his head.

  “No,” he says, “it isn’t.”

  My gut twists. Technically, I’m not lying to either one of them. But Brandy knew Alex and deserves the truth.

  And as for Lamar … well, he’s worried about me being too close to a guy like Devlin Saint. And maybe he’s right. God knows Devlin has the power to hurt me.

  They’re both looking at me expectantly, but I don’t know what to say. So I take the easy road and tell them once again that it’s only work. Then I mentally cheer when my phone rings, giving me an excuse to move into the living area.

  “Ellie? It’s Anna Lindstrom.” Her crisp, efficient voice comes across loud and clear, as I imagine it always does. She doesn’t seem like someone who would let crappy cell service diminish her authority.

  I wince, ashamed that I’m heading toward cattiness. After all, I have no real reason to dislike her other than the fact that she looks far too good on Devlin’s arm. And, of course, the fact that I’m pretty sure she’s sleeping with him.

  “I understand you’ll be joining Devlin today on the flight to Vegas.”

  I swallow. “Yes. I’ll be working on my article.”

  “What a terrific opportunity for you. I wanted to let you know that he’s requested that we send a car to take you to the airport. It will be there by one. You’ll arrive at The Phoenix before four. Devlin has a dinner with some representatives of the Beyond Project, and he hoped you would join him. I’ve dined with them several times, and the whole team is excellent. I’m sure you’ll learn a lot for your article.”

  “That sounds great,” I say as I tamp down that damn jealousy. “Thank you.” The Beyond Project is the organization the foundation funds that is doing the hardcore day-to-day work with the trafficking victims, so the chance to meet some of the reps who are supported by DSF d
ollars is definitely something I want in on.

  About the time I end the call, Lamar heads for the door. “I have to get to work,” he says. “Be smart, okay?”

  “I am smart,” I tell him.

  “Too smart for your own good sometimes,” he mutters.

  “I love you for worrying,” I tell him as I walk him to the door. “But there’s no need. Really.”

  He makes a noncommittal noise as he leaves, and as I’m shutting the door, I hear my phone chime with a text. It’s Millie.

  Found someone for you. Think I can arrange an interview. A lifer in Delano. Phone okay, or will you want in person?

  I’d prefer in person, but I know from experience that sometimes takes longer to arrange.

  Whatever’s fastest.

  She replies with a thumbs-up emoji, and I grin as I head back into the kitchen for another cup of coffee.

  Brandy’s behind the counter now, her hand in an oven mitt as she pulls out the muffin pan. Immediately, I start to salivate.

  “Good news?” she asks, looking at my face.

  “Looks like I may get an interview soon with one of The Wolf’s higher-ups.”

  She frowns. “Do you really think Peter was working for him? I read some stories on the web last night, and this Wolf guy sounds super scary.”

  “I honestly don’t know.” I sip my coffee as I move around the bar and climb onto one of the stools. “I just want one,” I say, nodding at the muffins. “Only one.”

  Her brows rise. “First, they have to cool. Second, who said I was offering?”

  “You love feeding me,” I tease. “Unless…” I trail off and lift my brows. “Are you perhaps putting together a basket for that special someone?”

  Considering the color that floods her cheeks, I know that’s exactly it. “Oh my God, you are. Who? And why didn’t you tell me last night?”

  She lifts a shoulder. “I met him at the gala right after we talked. It felt—I don’t know—like a gift after how cruddy I was feeling. He’s nice, and he’s not pushy, and he’s cute. I guess telling would have been like getting my hopes up.”