Saints and sinners the d.., p.32
Saints & Sinners: The Devlin Saint Trilogy, page 32
He’s smart and sweet and seems to truly care about Brandy. I see that clearly enough, and I know that she does, too, and yet she’s still holding back. Understandable, I suppose, considering she was practically unconscious her first time after an asshole at a party slipped her a date rape drug. As if that wasn’t bad enough, she ended up pregnant, which sent her parents over the deep end and the baby into an adopted home.
Traumatic as hell, and so I get why she doesn’t want to talk about it. But if she holds onto that secret for too long, I’m certain it’ll drive Christopher away. After all, some secrets between couples are okay. But when the secret is big—when it’s the kind that can truly impact a relationship—well, then silence isn’t a neutral issue. It becomes a real obstacle in the relationship.
I frown, realizing I’m no longer thinking about Brandy. My thoughts have instead turned to Devlin. He flat out told me that he has secrets. There will always be secrets between us, he’d said. You should have stayed away.
He told me he was a dangerous bet, but he never expected me to run. Not really. That much I’m sure of. Because Devlin knows me. He’s seen my demons, and he knows that danger doesn’t scare me.
No—that’s not true. It does scare me. But that’s the thrill. That’s the rush, all the more potent because I never expect it. Danger stole my whole family from me, and yet I’m still here.
I’m not the girl who flirts with danger. I’m the woman who tells danger to go fuck itself.
I shiver, not liking this dark direction of my thoughts. What I feel for Devlin is real—it is. It’s not some fucked up manifestation of survivor’s guilt. I know that. I believe it. I love him, and I’m falling deeper every day.
But how deep can the roots of our relationship really go when I know that he’s not only been keeping secrets, but that he never, ever intends to reveal them to me?
CHAPTER FIVE
“So we’re meeting tonight, right?” I ask a few hours later as Brandy frowns at her reflection in the hall mirror. “You, me, and Lamar for drinks at five?”
“That’s the plan,” she says. “As long as it’s only us playing catch-up and not the two of you organizing my love life.”
“Cross my heart,” I say, miming the action as I speak the words. “You sure you don’t want to talk more?” She’d deftly shifted the conversation after rescuing the second batch of muffins, and since my thoughts had turned far too deep and disturbing, I hadn’t pressed the issue. Now, though, I’m having friend guilt.
“With you, maybe, later. But as much as I love Lamar, I don’t want him being my relationship guru. Just my drinking buddy.”
I laugh, because I can’t argue with that. “Fair enough. I’ll shield you from questions about Christopher, and you do the same for me with questions about Devlin.”
She makes a face. “I’ll wear my favorite fire-retardant outfit.”
“Not funny.”
“Oh, I think it was,” she teases. “At least a little.”
She smirks, and I frown. We both know that Devlin isn’t on Lamar’s Favorite People list. Or, more accurately, he’s not on Lamar’s Favorite People for Ellie list. Lamar and I have been friends since we were cadets at the Irvine Police Academy. I’d been the only female and he’d been the only black cadet, and we’d bonded immediately. And though there’s never been anything romantic between us, we’re both protective of each other, and Devlin has picked up on that.
A long time ago, Lamar had a semi-crush on me. More of the let’s be friends with benefits variety than the let’s start a relationship kind. Sometimes, he’ll still tease me about hooking up, but not in a serious way. I’m sure he’d still go for a friends with benefits fling, but that’s because he has no problems mixing casual sex with friendship. I do, though, and I put the brakes on that possibility years ago. Because while he may be able to sleep with someone and stay friends, I fuck and bolt.
Or I used to. Devlin is the only exception to my rule. Probably because it was my past with Alex that set that particular rule in motion.
Now Lamar’s like Brandy. A close confidant. Unlike Brandy, he doesn’t know that Devlin used to be Alex Leto. Which means I have to watch myself around him, which I hate. But at the same time there’s no way I’ll break Devlin’s confidence. I might harass the shit out of him to give in and let me tell Lamar, but I absolutely won’t undermine him.
In fact, Lamar may never learn the truth. Because unlike Brandy, Devlin doesn’t trust him. That, however, is Devlin’s problem. I can count on two fingers the close friends I have, and while I’ll keep Devlin’s secret, there is no way I’m ditching a friend just because my boyfriend is jealous.
“Cask & Barrel at five, right?” Brandy asks.
I nod. “Perfect.”
“Cool. Would you put Jake in his crate when you leave? I need to get out of here or I’ll be late.”
I nod in assent, and she reaches down to stroke Jake, who’s sitting still, remarkably well-behaved in the hallway.
She twists around, obviously searching for her keys. “What are your plans?” she asks, finding them not on the hall table, but deep in her tote.
“I’m going to drop by the station and see if Lamar can help me with some research about Peter. But before that, I’m going to call Roger and see if I still have a job.”
She’d taken a step toward the door, but now she freezes. “You’re moving back to New York?”
“No, no.” I made the decision to stay in Laguna Cortez with Devlin, and I’m not changing my mind. But I love my job, too. And if I can finagle a way to keep it, well, then I’m more than willing to beg.
“Good luck,” Brandy says when I tell her as much. She gives me a hug, rubs Jake’s head, then hurries outside, slamming the door behind her.
With Jake at my heels, I head back to my room and settle on my bed. Jake flops in the sunny spot by my window as I slip on my headphones and dial the number for The Spall Monthly in Manhattan. “Hey, Brenda,” I say, when the receptionist answers, “it’s Ellie. Is Roger around?” Roger Covington is my editor, and we haven’t talked since he killed my profile of the DSF after learning that Devlin and I are involved. Add in the fact that I told him I’m staying in California, and I’m not sure where our friendship stands, much less my job.
“He’s in the staff meeting,” Brenda says, and I do a mental head-thwap, having forgotten the time difference. “But they’re almost done. Do you want to hold? Or I can have him call you back.”
I glance at my watch. If Roger’s on form—and he always is—they’ll wrap promptly in seven minutes. “I can hold,” I say, then settle in to listen to the classical hold music as I rummage in the floor of my closet for the box of my mother’s journals.
I’m willing to give Devlin twenty-four hours to see if he can learn something about the text. But I’m not willing to step back on learning more about Uncle Peter.
My first hint about Devlin’s true identity as the son of the notorious crime lord known as The Wolf came not long after I’d skimmed one of these very journals. I’d been a tiny thing at the time of the entry, and Mom was concerned about the kind of business her brother, Peter was in.
With me and Mom in the car, he’d gone to see the mother of a boy named Alejandro, who Peter had said was his boss’s son.
Soon after I read the entry, I made the connection. Peter worked for Daniel Lopez, aka The Wolf. Alex Leto was Alejandro Lopez, The Wolf’s son. And Alex had become Devlin.
It was a huge revelation at the time. Now, that I’ve learned the deeper truth, it’s only part of who Devlin is—and was.
For years, I hadn’t had the heart to read my mom’s words, too afraid that I’d be so consumed by grief that I’d get dragged down into the dark. I only started flipping through the pages when I began researching the article about Uncle Peter.
I came back to Laguna Cortez because new evidence had turned up after his death, and I soon learned that Peter had been in tight with The Wolf. And when he’d started skimming off money, The Wolf had ordered him killed.
I’d wanted to know how a seemingly upstanding man from a solid, middle-class family could have gotten sucked so deeply into an organization like The Wolf’s. But Peter died over ten years ago, and with no one else alive in my family and no other solid leads, I’d turned to my mom’s journals.
My first foray into my mother’s words had been limited, though. I’m not sure if it felt wrong to read her private thoughts or if I was afraid of crossing that black curtain of grief. Now, though, I want to know more. I want to learn what had troubled my mom about Peter, but I also want to learn more about the woman who loved me and was taken from me.
My mother didn’t label the spine of her journals, but one is only three-quarters filled out, and so I assume it’s the last of the books. With my heart pounding, I flip backwards to the final entry.
Charlie did it again. He promised he’d be home in time for dinner with me and Ellie. He hasn’t read her a bedtime story in a week. I know he loves both of us, but why can’t he understand that he needs to show it, too?
Forgive me, diary, I’m just griping. He’s a good man. A good provider. And I know he’s busy with so much responsibility, but even so…
I tried to call Peter to talk to him about Charlie. I know I should keep my marital issues to myself. But all my life, Peter has been my confidant. I know he’s still upset with me, but I had to talk with him. He didn’t answer the phone, though. I left a message, because maybe he’s screening calls. I told him to call me in an hour, because I need some air. I’m going to go take a drive. Hopefully Lisa can babysit for an hour or so. Ellie’s asleep, so doing her homework here is pretty much the same as doing it across the street at her house.
Maybe I’ll pick up a few more things for Ellie’s party tomorrow. Then it doesn’t seem like I’m escaping because I’m feeling alone and frustrated by the men in my life.
How is it that my baby is almost four!!??!!
Just called Lisa, and she’s on her way over. How lucky am I to have such a responsible high school kid right across the street?
My next entry will be much less whiny. Maybe I’ll even buy a bottle of wine and seduce my husband. Give him a reason to get home early. I think I like that plan…
I close the book, shaking. Ellie’s party tomorrow. She’d written this the night she was killed. The night that her car had gone over one of the cliffs, taking a chunk of the metal guardrail with it and killing my mother instantly.
Had that been part of the reason that Peter left Los Angeles and moved to Laguna Cortez? Had he felt guilty for missing my mom’s call—or, worse, for ignoring it?
And why was he upset with her? I know they’d been close their entire lives. My dad and Uncle Peter told me as much. So what could she possibly have done that made him want to ignore her?
I pull my knees up to my chest and hug my legs. From the earlier diary reference, I know that Peter wasn’t living in California when I was two. But he must have had work in Los Angeles because Mom and I had gone up to visit him, and I know he moved there later.
She’d been worried about him in that first entry I’d read, writing that Peter was involved in the kind of business that the wife of the Chief of Police probably shouldn’t know about.
Did she know something concrete? Or did she just have a vague feeling? And what had changed between then and my fourth birthday? Why had Peter moved to LA?
I don’t know any of those answers, but I damn well intend to find out.
Especially since poking around in Peter’s past just might shake a few things loose—including the identity of whoever sent me the text.
After another five minutes on hold, I’m considering hanging up, getting a coffee, and trying this call later. I’m just about to do that, when the hold music stops abruptly, and Roger comes on the line.
“I was expecting you to call me back,” he says. “Should I assume that the days of silence mean I’m down one reporter? Not to mention someone to split cheese fries with from Freddie’s?”
I grin, my stomach growling at the memory of the incredible fries from the deli two blocks from the office. I’m also smiling because if he’s teasing me about fries that means I haven’t turned a friend into an enemy.
“I guess we were at cross-purposes. I was waiting for you to call me.”
In addition to the DSF profile, I’d left Manhattan so that I could investigate Peter’s death and, possibly, turn my research into a story for The Spall. But when the news of my relationship with Devlin leaked to the press, Roger pulled me off not only the profile, but also the story about Peter.
I clear my throat. “After I dropped the bomb about staying in Laguna Cortez, I figured you’d have to do some thinking. And if you were thinking that the magazine still wanted me, then you’d have to do some negotiating with Franklin.” Franklin Coates is the magazine’s publisher, which means he’s the guy who ultimately holds my paycheck in his hands.
“I do want you,” Roger says, “and Franklin’s willing to let you work remotely. I won’t say that we over-reacted—getting involved with Saint while writing a profile about him and the foundation was a lot of things, bad judgment included.”
“I know. I—”
“But everyone makes mistakes, and Franklin and I both know you’re an excellent reporter and an asset to The Spall.”
A steel band around my heart loosens, and I suddenly realize how much I hadn’t wanted to get fired.
“Thank you. Roger, that means so much to me. I—”
“We’re going to run the profile,” he says, and my entire body goes limp with relief.
“That’s great news. The foundation does such good work, that—”
“No byline,” he says, and I cringe. “I’m sorry, kid, but under the circumstances, it’s best for the profile on the Devlin Saint Foundation to be published without a reporter’s name.”
I almost argue, but I know it’s futile. And, hell, they’re probably right. I genuinely believe in the work Devlin’s foundation does, and I’d hate for the fact that we’re together to confuse the message.
“Fine,” I say. And then, because I’m afraid that came out too curt, I add, “Thank you.”
“We want to keep you, kid. You’re an asset. Can’t give some West Coast rag the chance to snatch you up.”
“What about my piece on corruption inside the New York transit—”
“Not your story anymore.”
I clear my throat but say nothing. I can hardly expect the magazine to pay for me to take the red-eye back and forth for research.
“Corbin will be taking over all your New York-based articles.”
“Great,” I say, that one little word holding a bucketful of vitriol.
“Tell me how you really feel,” Roger says, and I grimace. Corbin Dailey and I have a firmly established mutual destruction policy. I hate him because he’s an arrogant, backstabbing prick with no flair for the written word. He hates me because I know it.
“You can’t possibly have expected me to be happy about that.”
“No, and it was Franklin’s call. If you want to consider it a punishment, I won’t correct you.”
“Fine. Fine. Do you have any actual good news for me?”
“Other than continuing to draw a paycheck?”
I rub my temple. “Funny. I was hoping we could talk about the Peter story. I’m still planning on writing it, and I’m going to publish it somewhere. So if—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. I talked with Franklin about that, too.”
“Oh.” I sit up straighter. “And?”
“We still want to run it. With a byline. We think having your name on it would be an asset. A personal essay with solid reporting to underscore the emotional parts. What do you say?”
What I want is to squeal with joy because it’s perfect, and I tell him so.
“Then keep me posted. I’d like it to run next month, but I have a feeling you’re going to need more time to dig.”
“You’re right about that. In fact, I’m about to head to the police station right now. I’m hoping Lamar can spare some time to help me with a couple of interviews.” I want to talk to Peter’s business contacts in Laguna Cortez. And I want to start tracing back to his contacts in LA.
“Detective Gage? The one who came to the office about a year ago?”
That summer, Lamar had flown to New York for a long theater weekend, and I’d taken him to the office to show off my editor and my desk with the same kind of glee that he shows his badge to elementary school kids.
“Give him my best,” Roger says.
“Will do,” I say, before ending the call with a fresh burst of enthusiasm. After all, not only am I no longer in employment limbo, but I’ve got a legitimate, work-related reason to do all the research that Devlin wants me to avoid.
CHAPTER SIX
Lamar’s interrogating someone when I arrive. I’d called ahead to make sure he wasn’t in the field, and since I’m not only expected but also a bit of LCPD royalty, I’m escorted in and permitted to sit in observation watching Lamar do his thing.
It’s a nice perk, but all in all I’d rather my father—the former Chief of Police—not have been killed in the first place. His death had left me with Chief Randall and his wife Amy as my guardians during that nether period between Daddy’s murder and me bailing on my last year of high school.
I don’t think about that now, though. Instead, I entertain myself by watching Lamar, whose ability to shift seamlessly between good cop and bad cop makes him a formidable interrogator.
Today, he’s doing his rendition of a burnt-out bad cop, and the way he verbally lashes out at the suspect combined with his don’t-give-a-fuck posture is a dead-on perfect performance.
