My Fallen Saint Page 7

  Mostly, I tried not to hate myself. Tried not to spend every single day remembering that I was the only living member of the Holmes family. That I’d survived and they hadn’t.

  Tried not to believe that the cosmos was punishing me, and that’s why Alex had gone.

  I know that’s not true. I know it’s survivor’s guilt doing the talking. But knowing’s nothing special. I know that E=mc2, but I still don’t have a clue what that means. And, honestly, I don’t know what it means that I’m the only one left, either.

  So, no. That’s probably not Alex. God knows this town is dirty with black Teslas. But I’m not going to walk over there to look.

  Because so long as I don’t know, the lonely, teenage girl inside of me can still believe.

  Chapter Ten

  Chief Timothy Randall releases me from an exuberant bear hug, then holds me at arms’ length, his ruddy face alight with pleasure. He’s a big man, but as gentle as they come. Unless he’s dealing with bad guys or defense counsel. Then he’s a bulldozer. “It’s so good to see you, Ellie. Amy and I both read your magazine. Charlie would be proud.”

  “Would he?” My voice sounds needy to my ears. “I always thought Daddy would be disappointed that I left the force.”

  “Disappointed in you? Never.” Chief Randall punctuates his gentle smile with a firm shake of his head. “He may have been your dad, but he was my best friend. Trust me on this.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say, and he chuckles.

  “I want you over for dinner before you go back to New York. Amy will have a fit if she doesn’t see you.”

  “I’d love it,” I say honestly. Amy Randall had been the lifeline that pulled me back when grief threatened to drag me under. She didn’t know the whole of it, of course. Alex was my secret. But she knew that I’d been broken, and she tried to fix me as best she could. “I miss her,” I add to the chief. And though he says nothing, he nods, and I know he understands.

  I square my shoulders, then meet his eyes. “I want to know all of it,” I say as I take a seat in one of the guest chairs in front of his desk. “Everything you’ve learned since you called me. And everything you didn’t tell me on the phone.”

  He looks over my shoulder at Lamar, who’s leaning against the closed door of Randall’s office, tall and broad-shouldered, like he owns the place.

  Randall gestures to the chair beside me. As Lamar sits, the chief does the same, facing the two of us across the desk.

  “Start with Mercado,” I say, reaching across the void for Lamar’s hand. We went through the Academy and joined the Irvine PD together. Since I was the only female and he was the only black recruit, we’d stuck together in the early days out of solidarity. After that, we stayed together out of friendship.

  “What have you learned?” I continue. “Do you know why he confessed to a crime he couldn’t have committed?”

  “We think we do,” he tells me, and the vise around my chest loosens a little simply from the knowledge that, maybe, I’m about to get some answers. “Are you familiar with The Wolf?”

  I frown, then nod slowly. “Some. I remember my dad mentioning him. And you, too. Plus, we did some reading on him in my criminology classes. A major crime lord who was finally taken out not long after Uncle Peter died. A year later? Maybe two?”

  “Right. Daniel Lopez,” he says with a nod. “Crime was the family business, but he took it to a whole new level. And he had his fingers everywhere.”

  “He was never convicted though,” I point out. “Never even proven to be the criminal mastermind known as The Wolf.”

  “Never proven,” Lamar agrees. “But everyone knows.”

  “Fair enough.” I look between the two of them. “What does this have to do with Ricky Mercado?”

  “The Wolf had put out a hit on him. Mercado wasn’t one of The Wolf’s men, but he owed him a debt.”

  I squeeze Lamar’s hand, feeling the reassuring pressure in response. “Rather than die, Mercado confessed to something he hadn’t done. Namely, killing my uncle.”

  “Exactly.”

  I sit back, not liking where this trail of breadcrumbs is leading. “The only reason that would make The Wolf happy is if Mercado’s confession took the spotlight off of the real killer. And that means that The Wolf had his fingers in Laguna Cortez. In Uncle Peter’s business.”

  “It gets worse,” Randall says.

  “My uncle was involved.” My voice is flat. Emotionless. I’m certain that I’m right. Cop instincts, Brandy had called them? Yeah. I’ve got them in spades. “He wasn’t an innocent bystander, was he? He was dealing, too.”

  “I’m sorry, Ellie. We’ve talked to Mercado’s cellmate. That’s what it looks like.”

  I shake my head. “He and my dad were so close. Uncle Peter knew what Daddy stood for. He wouldn’t get in bed with The Wolf.”

  “Maybe he didn’t,” Lamar says. “Or, at least, maybe it wasn’t willingly. But you know how that world works. The Wolf has somebody threaten Peter or you or one of Peter’s employees, and you can’t tell me that Peter wouldn’t cave.”

  “There’s another possibility,” Chief Randall says. “It’s not one you’re going to like.”

  I swallow. “You think Peter may have been working with The Wolf for a while. Like actually in deep.”

  “It’s a possibility,” he says. “If he was part of The Wolf’s organization even before he came to Laguna Cortez—”

  I lift up a hand to stop his words, because that’s something I just don’t want to hear.

  “I’m sorry. But you can’t ignore the possibility.”

  I nod, determined not to cry. I was a cop, dammit. I can deal with this. “I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. The one thing I know for sure is that he would have done anything to protect me,” I say. “He may have been gone a lot, but he loved me. And we were the only family either of us had left.”

  What I don’t say is that he would have protected Alex, too. And if he warned Alex of a threat…

  Well, that’s even more proof that Alex ran because he feared for his life. And it raises the question of how much Alex knew—and if he was dealing, too. Because that is the only reason I can think of for him to have remained both gone and silent.

  I drag my fingers through my hair, craving answers I have no easy way to find. “I want to know which one of The Wolf’s flunkies really shot my uncle,” I say, as I stand and start pacing.

  “And I want to know if Peter was dealing on the side because he was forced to or because the money lured him in or because he’d been in deep all along.”

  I draw a breath, my mind whirring. If Peter was truly part of The Wolf’s organization, maybe he’d been in deep for a long time. I think about my mom’s things. The box of diaries and papers and personal effects that are tucked into a box I keep high in my hall closet in New York. Would there be answers there? Had she seen anything dicey about her brother?

  I shake the thought off, but I’m already making a plan to call Roger and ask him to get into my apartment and ship me that box.

  I frown as I continue to pace. “I want to know what the tipping point was,” I say. “Why they decided to take him out. Because something must have happened. The Wolf was too smart to take out a hit without a damn good reason.”

  “You know what we know,” Randall says. “Any files you want to see, you shout. Just tell me where you want to start.”

  “Thank you, and I will,” I say, but the truth is I already know. I’m going to start tonight. And I’m going to start with Alex.

  “Coffee?” Lamar asks, as we leave the Chief’s office. “I’m meeting an informant in Dana Point in an hour, but we could grab a quick one across the street.”

  “That works. I still have shopping to do before I go home and make myself gorgeous.”

  His brows rise. “Hot date?”

  “Stag,” I say. “But I scored tickets to the gala, and I plan to corner Saint.”

  “What an enterprising little reporter you’v
e become.”

  “Asshole,” I say, hip bumping him as we push through the double glass doors. The police station is a few miles south of the Arts District near the courthouse. The bakery across the street has fulfilled the very clichéd job of serving donuts to cops for longer than I’ve been alive, and I’m surprised to see that the signage has been upgraded, now informing the world that they also serve lattes, pastries, and even gluten free fare.

  I nod that direction as I side-eye Lamar.

  “Don’t worry. Their box of glazed is still damn near close to heaven.”

  “Phew. I was starting to worry.”

  We settle at one of the sticky outdoor tables, and he goes inside to order as I scroll through my phone, checking for messages from Roger. Nothing, which I appreciate. He knows I’ll send notes when I have them.

  What I do have is a text from Brandy telling me to meet someone named Inez at a boutique called Escape. I haven’t seen her since last night before coffee and parking lot shenanigans. This morning, she’d already left for the LA garment district by the time I’d rolled out of bed. But I’d texted her an SOS for fashion help, and she’d promised to come through for me.

  * * *

  If Inez can’t find a gala dress for you

  that’ll burn Devlin Saint’s eyes,

  the outfit doesn’t exist.

  At cost, too. She owes me a favor.

  XXOO You are the best.

  Believe me. I know.

  I start to tell her about Devlin and Alex, Mr. GT, my twisting stomach, and my high levels of confused adrenaline. But I stop myself. That’s a conversation to be had in person.

  The only reason we haven’t had it yet is that she was asleep when I got home last night and gone when I woke up. Well, that and I haven’t decided exactly what I’m going to say yet. Or, more accurately, how I’m going to say it.

  Which means that she doesn’t have a clue that I bumped into Devlin Saint last night. Or Alex Leto. Or if I went back to the bar and got another guy. Someone, perhaps, like Mr. GT.

  Instead, I tap out that Lamar says hi.

  Hug him for me.

  Will do & gotta run!

  * * *

  I send the text, then slide my phone into my bag, thinking how weird it is that I’ve yet to be together with the two of them. Both have visited me in Manhattan, but at different times. And once I met up with Lamar when I’d gone to LA to cover a story. But we’ve never had all sides of the triangle together at the same time.

  I’m here now, though, at least for a little while, and the knowledge that my two besties have my back lessens some of the weight I’ve been carrying since last night.

  “So, do you miss it?” Lamar asks, depositing coffee and donuts on the table. He settles into the seat opposite me, his large body looking a bit ridiculous on the tiny metal chair.

  I shake my head, knowing he means the job and not the town. “I thought police work would be my life. God knows I was motivated enough—bring the assholes to justice, make the streets safe for kids, right wrongs, all that stuff. I mean, you know. When we met that first day at the Academy, I was still giddy over getting my degree in criminology. Actually, becoming a cop was going to put me over the edge.”

  “I remember. I felt it, too.”

  “And you still do,” I point out as I pluck a donut from the box and start to rip off a bite-sized piece.

  “Don’t you?”

  “Sure,” I say. “I’m just fighting with a pen now instead of a badge.”

  Wasn’t that how Brandy put it? And she was right. That’s what I’m doing, hoping to make a difference by shining a light into the dark that most people never even see.

  “I’m proud of you, Sherlock. The Spall. That’s solid.”

  “It is, Watson. I still pinch myself sometimes.”

  The nicknames began as a riff off my last name when we’d gone out drinking with some other recruits. They’d teased us about being such good friends that Lamar should be named Watson and not Gage. Somehow, the names stuck. And knowing that Sherlock and Watson are together again makes my return to Laguna Cortez that much more palatable.

  He studies my face for a moment, his expression full of compassion. “Give it to me straight, Sherlock. You doing okay? This thing with Peter?”

  “Honestly? I don’t know. I want answers. I’ll be doing better when I have them.”

  He nods, obviously weighing my words. “Does that mean you’re going to write an article about your uncle?”

  I concentrate on ripping apart my donut. “The jury’s out on that one. I want answers, but I’m not sure I want to write up something so personal.”

  “I get that.”

  “Right now, I’m just focusing on the DSF profile.”

  “Which is why you’re going shopping. And who’s your escort?”

  “I just have the one ticket. I couldn’t—” I stop myself, leaning back in my chair as I study his face. “Hang on. Are you going to the DSF gala? Never mind, of course you are.”

  Lamar Gage loves his life as a detective, but he’s also got a shit ton of money and is a regular and frequent contributor to various charities. Especially when the contribution scores a ticket to an event that allows him to see and be seen. “Have you got a date?”

  He meets my eyes, and I see a flicker of heat. “I do now.”

  I shoot him a sharp glance. “You know that’s not happening.”

  “Would it be that bad?

  “Yeah,” I say. “It would.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Dammit, Lamar.” I hear the exasperation in my voice as I rake my fingers through my hair. “Is that really what you want? To break up Sherlock and Watson? Because you’re one of my best friends, and since I only have two, that’s saying a lot.”

  We came close to getting naked one drunken night before I put on the brakes. And while I think he regrets that, I don’t. All I regret is letting it get that far in the first place.

  “Ellie—”

  “No. I’m not losing you, and if we fuck—even just for fun—that is exactly what would happen.”

  He winces, presumably at my harsh tone and blunt vocabulary. Maybe because the other tables can undoubtedly hear us. “It doesn’t have to.”

  “It ends, Lamar. I screw a guy, it’s over. Either they leave or I do.” That’s an exaggeration, of course. The only guy who ever left me is Alex. Now I know better. Now I don’t give a guy the chance. I’m the one who walks. Always.

  “It doesn’t have to be that way.”

  “But it does.” I know myself. More importantly, I know my demons. And if we got involved, I really would screw it up.

  I take a deep breath. “I’m sorry.” I’m softer now, my words gentler. “You mean too much to me. And I’m not going to risk losing you.”

  For a moment, everything stops. Even the birds go silent. Then he nods. “Yeah, well, I love you, too.”

  I melt with relief, then wipe away a tear. “We’re okay?”

  His shoulders sag. “Always.” He swallows the rest of his coffee. “Okay. You’re staying at Brandy’s, right?”

  “Right.”

  “I’ll pick you up at six. We’ll grab a bite, then hit the gala. Okay?”

  “Perfect.”

  He nods. “Am I your arm candy? Or are we on a covert mission?”

  I grin. This is why I love Lamar. “Totally arm candy. But you have your uses, too.”

  “Do I?” He adds a leer to his voice, but this time I know he’s joking.

  “Down, boy.” I take a sip of coffee, then lean back in my chair. “You’ve been here about as long as Saint has, right? What’s your impression of the guy?”

  “I thought reporters were supposed to ask laser-focused questions. Do you want my opinion as a detective? Or just as a guy in the community?”

  “Is there a difference?”

  “Honestly? Not really. As a detective, Saint’s not on my radar at all. As far as I know, there’ve been no complaints by him or about
him.”

  “And as a guy in the community, what do you think of him?”

  “I don’t, actually. He’s got a bit of celebrity because of his money and the foundation, but he’s not a publicity hound. He keeps to himself, doesn’t seek out opportunities to be photographed and plastered all over social media. He only bumps my radar on days like today.”

  “The gala, you mean?”

  “Right. Other than that…” He trails off with a shrug. “He seems okay. And genuine. I know that he personally gives to the annual police charity, and the DSF does as well. He’s also funded some things we wanted that were out of our budget. Extra servers, computers, tech for the patrol cars, that kind of thing.”

  I nod, taking it all in. “You’re saying he’s active in the community?”

  “Yeah. Well, actually no. Not him. But the foundation is. The man himself? He’s as private as all the articles say he is, but I figure he’s paid for the privilege.”

  “Is all that stuff about him sleeping around bullshit?” The question is out before I can call it back, but if Lamar thinks it’s weird, he doesn’t comment.

  “Oh, I hear things. I don’t think he’s quite the horndog the tabloids would like to make him.”

  An unwelcome wave of relief crashes over me, because why the hell should I care anymore?

  “But he’s not a monk, either,” Lamar says. “And even there, he’s private.”

  I nod thoughtfully, wishing the thought of a parade of women through Alex’s bedroom didn’t grate on me like fingers on a chalkboard. Shouldn’t. Care. Remember?

  After all, he isn’t even Alex anymore. He’s Devlin Saint, and I need to keep remembering that.

  Lamar snags the last of the six donuts we’ve devoured. “Pretty softball questions for a hard-ass reporter.”

  I roll my eyes, but otherwise ignore his snark. “One more thing. What did you mean when you said he paid for the privilege of privacy?”

  “Oh, you know. He throws his money around town. That earns him some respect. Keeps him out from under the microscope.”