by Quinn Avery
“You still don’t have any idea who was on the receiving end of the drugs?”
“No…but I have a feeling Mugsy knows something the way he was going on about how we need to get far away from Papaya Springs before we’re next. He told me they have ‘more disciples in this city than Jesus’. A lot of the other stuff he said didn’t really make sense.” Brewer inhaled a long drag before meeting Bexley’s gaze. “I think he’s losing his shit.”
Bexley scrambled to her feet, and offered Brewer her hand. “Sounds like it’s past time for the two of you to get reacquainted.”
The address Roberto “Mugsy” García had given to Brewer over a year prior brought them to a duplex not too far down the road from the Paxton siblings. The respectable community was lit with charming street lights, otherwise the majority of the homes remained dark. Most everyone would be in bed by that hour, resting up for another day of serving the city’s finest. Once Bexley rang the doorbell of Mugsy’s unit, a deep bark from inside was multiplied by neighborhood dogs. Seconds later, Bexley was staring into the red-rimmed eyes of a beefy Hispanic man dressed in gym shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt bearing the Coast Guard logo.
The man grasped the studded collar of an agitated, brindle-colored American Staffordshire Terrier that drooled with every sharp bark. The living area behind him was in even more disarray than Simone’s apartment had been. From the stench that came with dozens of empty beer cans and crumpled packs of cigarettes, Bexley guessed he’d been holed up in the duplex for days—perhaps even weeks.
“Who’re you?” Mugsy snarled, reaching for the bulge of a weapon tucked into his waistband.
Bexley held her hand up to show him she was unarmed. “Hold on. I’m—”
Brewer stepped out of the shadows at her side. He held a protective arm out, shielding Bexley. “Relax, brother. She’s with me.”
Mugsy dropped his arm. “Hawk? You must be outta your mind comin’ here! What if you were followed?” He leaned forward, eyes darting around the noiseless street. “Get your ass inside!”
Grabbing Bexley’s hand, Brewer slipped in past his buddy. “We were careful,” he assured Mugsy. “No one’s following us.”
With the door shut behind them, Mugsy commanded his dog to lay down. The beautiful canine licked his owner’s hand before curling onto a worn pillow. Mugsy’s suspicious expression traveled down to where Brewer had locked his fingers with Bexley’s. “Glad to see you’ve finally moved on.” A little smirk played on his lips as his gaze traveled up Bexley’s skinny jeans, across her black and white striped tunic, and settling on her face. “You always had a thing for the hot ones.”
The man’s assumption and Brewer’s failure to set his friend straight made it hard for Bexley to breathe. She felt an even stronger bond to Brewer after he’d shared his painful past with her, but she wasn’t ready to act on anything.
“I’m a private investigator,” she snapped. Before she was able to wiggle her fingers free, Brewer’s hand tightened around hers. She added, “We’re hoping you can help us fill in some of the blanks.”
“I don’t know nothin’,” Mugsy replied, eyes narrowed on Brewer. “What’d you tell her?”
“Nothing she’ll repeat,” Brewer said with a shake of his head. “You can trust her.”
“Who’s behind the drug deals, Mugsy?” Bexley pressed. “Who did Redding answer to?”
Mugsy began to pace his tiled entryway, fingers laced through his short, dark hair. “You don’t understand. They’re probably camped outside this place right this second, ready to take me out! To take all of us out!”
“No one’s outside,” Bexley insisted. “We swept the neighborhood before knocking on your door.”
Brewer stepped forward, aligning himself nose-to-nose with his friend. “If you don’t help us stop them, one of us might end up like Stinger. You ready to live with my death on your conscience?”
Mugsy balked, then stumbled backward a few steps. He tried to catch himself on the wall, but started going down. Brewer steadied him on his feet before he hit the floor, saying, “Whoa, brother. Take it easy.” Then Brewer accompanied him into the living room, helping Mugsy lower himself to a clean section on the leather couch.
From Mugsy’s clumsy, delayed reaction and enlarged pupils, Bexley worried he was high on something stronger than weed. It would explain his heightened state of paranoia.
Bexley cleared a spot on the end table across from Mugsy, and perched on the edge. “I want to put an end to this before either you or Brewer gets hurt. Tell us what you know.”
“I don’t know any names,” Mugsy whispered, head hung low. “I just remember Redding saying somethin’ one time about gettin’ to meet them in person once they decided he could be trusted. I saw him a few days afterwards…he was real spooked, said we had to mind our P’s and Q’s because there was nowhere safe to hide from them in Papaya Springs. He was real paranoid from that point on. When Stinger and me told him we were out a couple’a weeks later, he shook his head real sad like, said we were on our own.”
“Do you know where he met with them?” Bexley prodded.
Mugsy shook his head. “He didn’t say.”
Bexley threw Brewer a skeptical glance. “Why would they come after you now, after years of radio silence?”
“Bet Redding knows,” Mugsy gruffly answered. “He called me up one day last week outta the blue, sounded real jumpy. Wanted to know if I’d been talkin’ to Hawk or Stinger recently. Said to call him if I heard or saw anything out of the ordinary. When I tried to get him to open up a little more, he hung up.” He scrubbed his fists over his eyes. “I’m sorry I ever got involved in this shit.”
Sounds like Redding deserves a visit next, Bexley decided. She gripped Mugsy’s knee, waiting until his eyes fixed on hers. “Do you know where we can find him?”
Eyes glistening, Mugsy nodded. “He’s staying in one of those ridiculous mansions out past Highland Avenue.” He turned to Brewer. “It’s the same place he’d always go on and on about back in the day. You remember the one?”
Brewer nodded. “Yeah, I remember.” He turned to meet Bexley’s curious look. “It was owned by that actor…the psycho that killed all those women.”
Bexley was unable to shake the queasy sensation that followed her all the way from Mugsy’s place on the east side of Papaya Springs to a cheap, off-the-beaten-path motel in downtown L.A. It seemed inevitable that she’d have to return to Dean Halliwell’s home—the place where she’d almost become his last victim. The thought shook her to the core.
Since Colt Sawyer had towed Brewer’s motorcycle to the MC for safe keeping, Brewer waited in Bexley’s SUV while she paid cash for a smoking room at the front desk. Although Bexley fully intended to drive back to her apartment after Brewer was settled in for the night, she didn’t have the willpower to turn down the swigs of whiskey he offered.
As she sprawled out on the edge of the king bed, Brewer sat back against the quilted headboard, eyeing her while lighting a cigarette. He’d removed his shirt and settled in for the night, displaying his fit torso covered in fascinating artwork. The booze did nothing to fight her growing attraction to him. She was consumed by a warm rush filling her from head to toe.
“You’re awfully thirsty tonight, Squires,” he commented, his voice laced with sarcasm. “What’s on your mind?”
Eyes closed, she stifled a snort. “I promise you, you don’t want to know.”
She heard him inhaling his cigarette, then slowly blowing the smoke back out. “For what it’s worth, I regret getting you involved. I never would’ve asked for your help if I’d known the kind of danger I’d be putting you in.”
“It’s nothing new,” she muttered. “Some jobs come with four-oh-one k plans. Mine comes with a valid reason to update my Will.”
He released a deliciously deep chuckle. “I like the way you always make me laugh. You’re almost able to make me forget about all the dark shit I’ve been through.”
“Life is
funny that way.” Flipping her eyes open, she rolled on her side to face him. She’d been kidnapped and framed for murder, but she was still most affected by the three seconds she entertained becoming romantically involved with a serial killer. “You can tell yourself a thousand times that you’re okay, but it’s never easy to make the darkness disappear.”
He leaned over to extinguish the cigarette on an ashtray on the nearby nightstand. Then he lifted the bottle of whiskey, and his beautiful eyes darkened. “Com’ere.”
“Oh no you don’t,” she sang, wagging a finger. She clumsily maneuvered around until she was sitting upright. “A bad boy tried to romance me once before. I mean, I realized it was a mistake before he was done kissing me, but it proved to be the worst moment of my entire life. That circus didn’t end so well.”
“What makes you think I’m a bad boy?” he asked, tilting his head. He sounded more amused than offended. “And why would that label matter? I could end up being the best thing that’s ever happened in your lifetime. Between your job and the time we’ve hung out, you seem to enjoy living on the wild side.”
Considering how right he was, she couldn’t form a logical response to the contrary. The idea of letting herself explore a future with Brewer sparked something warm in the pit of her belly.
What if?
Before she could follow what was happening, he’d set the bottle down and moved to her side of the bed. As he slid his warm hand over hers, she could smell the nicotine on his breath, and feel the sporadic pounding of his heart in his fingertips. His bare chest radiated heat. An intoxicating blend of danger and excitement crackled in the air between them when she attempted to draw in her next breath.
“Does this have something to do with that detective?” he asked.
Her heart slammed to a standstill. She hated lying when it was so much easier to tell the truth. She thrived on making things less complicated. “Grayson and I were good together, you know?”
“Good’s okay,” he agreed, shrugging. “It’s comfortable.” His stare intensified. “But how do you know there isn’t something better out there unless you give it a try?”
It was too much. Too soon.
While she believed Brewer’s fiancée had been the driving force behind his unsavory actions, his story of not knowing how he ended up next to a dead body in Mexico hadn’t been vindicated…yet. And she wasn’t convinced she could be with someone who had intentionally broken a federal law. What would J.J. think of her if he knew about Brewer’s past? Would he still entrust her to take over his legacy?
Desperate to make light of the moment, she rolled her eyes and let out a giggle that fell flat. The fiery way his enduring chestnut eyes watched her made it hard to think. “Aren’t you the same guy who told me you don’t do relationships?”
He seemed to be considering his answer carefully as his tongue slipped out to lick his lips, and his eyes darted to the corner of the room. “I once thought I’d never care for another woman the way I did for Izzy. But I learned as a Coastie that sometimes things happen beyond anyone’s control, like when a tsunami capsizes a boat. There’s no stopping it, no use in trying to fight. The only thing you can do is try to save yourself.” Looking back down on her, his lips spread with a one-sided grin. “I’m starting to think you’re my own personal tsunami.” He leaned in a little closer. Close enough to kiss. “What do you say, Squires? Wanna ride the storm with me?”
The room spun and her heart throttled her ribcage. She wasn’t sure if it was from the whiskey, or his suggestion. She gripped his wrist in an attempt to stay still. “I need time to process the events of these past few days. And I’ve had way too much to drink. Whiskey is not my friend. It’s not even a close acquaintance. I might not remember a lick of this in the morning.”
“Fair enough.” His dimples sunk into his cheeks when he grinned. “If you forget anything about tonight, I’ll be happy to give you a recap in the morning.” With another delicious chuckle, he bent to kiss her forehead. She melted the second his warm, pillowy lips met her skin. “Good night, Squires.”
Before her eyes closed, she remembered her head sinking into a cloud-like pillow, and a blanket being tucked beneath her chin.
15
Fire scorched Bexley’s eyelids. Moaning, she threw an arm over her face and muttered, “Make it stop.”
Her protest was answered with Brewer’s deep laugh. “You weren’t kidding when you said whiskey isn’t your friend.” The mattress buckled with his weight, and the aroma of dark roast wafted through the air. “I grabbed you a coffee from a cafe around the corner.”
Little bits of memory from the night before returned. Brewer had suggested they become involved, and she’d turned him down.
Cheeks warming with a rush of embarrassment, she removed her arm. Brewer sat inches away, hair damp from a recent shower, white styrofoam cup in either hand, lips curved with a maddeningly sexy smirk.
She rose to her elbows, shaking her head. “Wait a minute. You left the motel? You remember you’re hiding out because of a warrant and a possible hit on your life, right?”
“I wore the baseball cap you bought at the gas station. I made a point to go unnoticed.” With another deep laugh, he held out the steaming coffee. “How much do you remember?”
She sat all the way upright, taking the warm cup and reveling in its delicious scent. “All of it,” she confessed before taking a sip. When the liquid electrified her senses all at once, she hummed. “This tastes like the start of a successful day.”
Brewer quirked an eyebrow. “Wanna talk about my idea some more?”
“Not now,” she decided. A part of her wished she could merely disappear to avoid another meaningful conversation. “After I finish this cup, maybe I’ll feel human enough to start surveillance on Redding’s place. If he doesn’t lead us to any suspects, I’ll smoke him out and see what he knows.”
Brewer pushed off the mattress and stood. “No need. Mugsy called me early this morning on the burner phone. Redding stopped by before the crack of dawn, said he was going to visit his mom in Iowa for a few days. He tried to convince Mugsy to go along.”
“Sounds like Redding’s even more spooked than Mugsy.” Bexley ran her fingers through her tangled hair. “I’ll find a way to confirm he’s left. In the meantime, I have another case that needs my attention.” She fished a few twenties out of her handbag on the floor, and tossed them on the nightstand. “Do us both a favor, and stay put this time. Order in when you get hungry.”
“You expect me to stay here all day?” he grumbled, crossing his arms.
“Not really, but I wish you would.” While starting for the bathroom, she threw him a sharp look. “I don’t have the time or the resources to try to track you down if you go missing again.”
Less than half an hour after Bexley contacted Red with the request to track down Redding, the tech guru returned her call.
“I found a surveillance video that shows one Mr. Otis Welder boarding flight D-one-one-seven bound for Des Moines, Iowa, at six-fifteen this morning,” Red reported. “Other than a rental car in Des Moines, activity on his credit cards is null. I’m assuming he’s staying with friends or family since he hasn’t made any deposits for a hotel.”
“You tapped into TSA footage?” Steering through a residential neighborhood in Fullerton, Bexley shook her head. “Something tells me I don’t want to know the lengths you go for these things.”
Red added, “I feel I’d be amiss in my duties if I didn’t tell you the guy looked sketchy as hell. I’m surprised they let him pass through security. Should we be notifying the authorities?”
“That’s won’t be necessary.” Bexley parked in front of a well-maintained, tan and white bungalow at her GPS’s direction. A sparkling pearl-white Cadillac sat in the driveway. “But do me a favor, and give me a call if anything more comes up under Brewer Hawkins’s name.”
Bexley ended the call before starting for the rambler. A white-haired elderly woman with a hunched back
and deep wrinkles lining her narrow features appeared inside the front door. She greeted Bexley with a kind smile over sparkling white dentures. “You must be Miss Squires.”
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice, Mrs. Beers. I won’t take much of your time.”
The old woman waved a hand through the air. “It’s not a bother. I welcome any visitors I can get. So often my days get to be painfully long with only my stubborn cat as company.” Then she nudged the door open. “Won’t you come in for a cup of tea?”
“I’m afraid I don’t have—” Bexley began to reply. When the woman’s expression turned hopeful, however, she changed her mind. Letting out a shallow breath, Bexley smiled. “Sure. I’d love to join you for a cup of tea.”
The constant tick of a grandfather clock and a quiet meow from a hidden location were the only sounds to be heard as Bexley entered the residence behind Mrs. Beers. “Have a seat, dear. I’ll put the kettle on the stove.”
The pungent odor of moth balls and pine cleaner curdled Bexley’s queasy stomach as she took a seat on a winged-back chair in a small living area. Based on the dark green wallpaper and thick shag carpet, Bexley guessed the house hadn’t been decorated since the 1970s. Dozens of framed pictures lined the walls, many featuring a younger version of Mrs. Beers.
Curiously enough, the gallery included a recent snapshot of Travis with Mrs. Beers. From the friendly way they stood with their arms around each other, posing beside the Cadillac in the driveway, it seemed their relationship went well beyond landlord/tenant. Mrs. Beers’s eyes sparked with tears, and she beamed as if she’d won the lottery. Curiouser and curiouser, Bexley thought.
While waiting for the sound of the whistling teapot amidst the old woman’s humming in the kitchen, Bexley mentally walked through Kiersten and Brewer’s cases. If her suspicions were confirmed by Travis’s landlord, Bexley would pay Simone another visit, hopefully catching the model alone. Bexley suspected that Simone didn’t possess credible acting skills, and would expose her true feelings when Bexley suggested her brother’s possible involvement in the heist.