by Josh Lanyon
“Still punctual as ever.” Ashe reached him, handed the mug to Taylor. “How was your drive?”
“Quick and easy. Thanks.” He eyed Ashe thoughtfully. Ashe’s blond hair was mussed, and there were gray shadows under his eyes. Rough night? Taylor raised the mug, sipped, and felt his eyebrows hit his skull. “Wow. What’s in there?”
“Tequila, Kahlua, coffee.” Ashe grinned. “Like we drank back in college.”
Taylor gave a short laugh. “Uh, yeah, I don’t really do Mexican coffee for breakfast these days.”
“Ah, come on. Live a little.” Ashe nodded toward the giant urns and columns. “Did you want to come inside? Or is this supposed to be strictly business?”
Huh?
“Sure. In a minute. Can I take a look at where the fire started?” Taylor took another swallow of Mexican coffee, decided better not, and followed Ashe, who was already striding down the drive toward the three-car garage.
“I take it there’s no live-in staff or caretaker now?”
“No.”
Taylor didn’t see any sign of security cameras or sensors. “What about a security system?”
“No. Mom didn’t like them. She believed the security company would use their cameras to spy on her.” Ashe grinned at Taylor, and Taylor grinned back because he remembered Ashe’s mother had been a character.
He also remembered that Ashe had been very close to his father, and that his father had died Ashe’s first year at UCLA. He remembered holding Ashe after he got the terrible news, and going to the funeral with him. Things he had not thought about in ages.
He said, “But the gates would have been locked?”
“I have no idea.” Ashe’s lip curled in scornful amusement. “You think you’re going to look for fingerprints or signs of a break-in two years later?”
“No. But just for my own information, I’d like to understand how they got access to the house. And how they managed to live here for two years without, apparently, raising any alarms.”
“Zamarion’s story was that my mother invited him to live here as a guest before she passed away.”
Okay. Not trespassing so much as a holdover tenant situation? That would definitely make it a case for the courts. At least this piece of it.
“Any possibility that’s true?” He couldn’t quite read Ashe’s expression.
Ashe stopped walking. “No. Zero. Mom was terrified of guys like Zamarion.”
“Guys like Zamarion?”
“Hippies.”
“Ah.” Taylor said, “Was Zamarion able to produce any kind of documentation to support his claim?”
“Of course not.” Ashe’s harsh laugh ricocheted off the pale stucco walls and brick. He glanced at Taylor’s coffee mug. “You’re not going to drink that, are you?”
“Better if I don’t.” Taylor smiled apologetically, handed the steaming mug to Ashe, who made a face, then took a swallow.
“Hair of the dog.” Ashe continued walking.
“Right.”
Ashe’s lashes flicked up. He smiled with his old charm. “Uh-oh. You’ve got your big brother face on.”
Taylor opened his mouth, but Ashe abruptly returned to the topic at hand. “Oh. Get this. Zamarion tried to claim Mom intended to leave the house to him.”
Taylor frowned. “Was there a will?”
Ashe flushed, said darkly, “There was a will!”
“What does that mean?”
“That the will disappeared by the time I got here.”
“Wouldn’t your mother’s lawyer have a copy?”
“No.”
“But—”
“You think I’m lying?” Ashe demanded. “That’s beautiful.”
“Hey, I’m just trying to get the facts straight. I’m on your side. But I can be of more help if I know exactly what we’re dealing with. So even if you have information that you think strengthens Zamarion’s case or weakens yours, it’ll be better if you tell me up front.”
Ashe snapped, “He broke into my mother’s house after she died, turned the place into a rathole, and lived here with his derelict friends until I came home and discovered what had happened. That’s the whole story.”
“Okay, Ashe,” Taylor said, his tone conciliatory. “I’m sorry if I upset you.”
Some of the hurt drained from Ashe’s face. His gaze, a much paler, cooler shade of blue than Will’s, fell. He nodded, sighed. “I get that you have to ask these questions, but I’m tired of nobody believing me. I can’t understand why everyone is willing to give so much leeway to a lowlife like Zamarion. I thought if anyone would know I was telling the truth, it would be you.”
Ouch.
“I’m sorry,” Taylor said again. “I really am.”
And he really was, but he also couldn’t help remembering that, at least in the old days, Ashe and the truth enjoyed what one might call an open relationship.
They had reached the back of the three-car garage. A good portion of the terracotta walls was scorched and blackened. Taylor squatted down to better examine the burn marks. Modern stucco was naturally fire resistant, which could explain the lack of any significant damage. A couple of empty yards of stone drive separated the back of the garage from the thick stone perimeter walls where winter brown vines formed a dense net. The vines showed no signs of having caught fire.
Ashe said, “The firefighters figure they used a couple of wooden crates to climb over the wall, then stuffed the crates with gasoline-soaked rags and set them on fire. It was drizzling off and on that night, but even so, if I hadn’t come home early, the whole structure could have gone up in flames, including the house.”
Taylor nodded thoughtfully. “Did you say an arson report was filed?”
“No.”
“No, you didn’t say, or no, an arson report wasn’t filed?”
Ashe seemed to have trouble meeting his eyes. “There was no arson report.”
“Why?”
“I asked them—convinced the fire department not to request an arson investigator because I wasn’t going to make an insurance claim anyway.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because I was afraid!”
Taylor hung on to his patience. “Afraid of what?”
“I was afraid—I knew—I’d come under suspicion.”
Now they were getting somewhere. Maybe not a place Taylor wanted to find himself, but somewhere. He kept his tone even. “Why would that be?”
“Because the house is underwater. It’s mortgaged to the hilt, and it only appraised for two thirds of the amount owed on it. Put that together with the problems I’m having with these squatters, and someone—the sheriff’s department—is liable to think I decided to burn my way out of a bad financial situation.”
Taylor was silent.
Ashe must have read his silence as condemnation. “And before you ask, no, I didn’t try to set my house on fire. Jesus. I get that you have to be objective in your line of work, Taylor, but you know me.”
Yes. Yes, he did. Or had at one time. But one of the brutal lessons of law enforcement was discovering that no one could completely know another person. Hell, you couldn’t even know for sure what you yourself might do in every single possible scenario. For better or for worse, people—even the people you thought you knew best—could surprise you.
You could surprise yourself.
“Okay.” Taylor sighed. “Let’s go inside, and you can tell me everything you know about Mike Zamarion.”
As it turned out, they didn’t talk much about Mike Zamarion.
Partly that was because it seemed all Ashe knew was that Zamarion was a “scary dude” trying to steal his house. Partly that was because Ashe had a second—or more likely a third—Mexican coffee.
“Did I get it wrong?” Ashe asked. “I got the feeling you and Brandt are together, but you’re the only one wearing a wedding ring.”
By then they had adjourned to the library, where Ashe was rifling through desk drawers in search of whatever documents he seeme
d to think would help prove his case to Taylor.
It was a room Taylor remembered disconcertingly well because he and Ashe had once fucked on what appeared to be the very same black and scarlet Persian rug lying before the field stone fireplace.
Fun times. His back twinged just thinking about it.
Anyway, it was a wide, comfortable room paneled in golden oak. There were several tall, arched windows overlooking the garden of cacti and succulents, and a couple of ceiling-high bookshelves at either end of the room. Not that many bookshelves and not that many books for a room known as the library. But Taylor recalled none of the Dekkers were much for reading. For sure Ashe’s amusements ran in a more sporty direction: tennis, swimming, sex. His parents had made good use of their memberships to the nearby racquet and polo clubs. They’d enjoyed less athletic activities too. Drinking, gambling, driving too fast. Those last three had been the combination that ended Ashe’s father.
“We’re not married,” Taylor answered. Engaged sounded pretentious—and it wasn’t like he and Will had set a date—but they were certainly committed to each other. Will had given him a ring. He felt married to Will. Maybe he should just give Will a ring and they could call it done?
Although maybe there was something to be said for formalizing that commitment.
Or maybe it said something that they couldn’t seem to get around to formalizing their commitment?
Nah. It was more about the expense and hassle. The very idea of trying to organize a wedding was daunting, and he knew Will felt the same. Assumed he did. Since he hadn’t pushed the idea either.
He compromised with, “But we’re together.”
“I see.”
Probably not. This wasn’t something Taylor usually gave a lot of thought. He figured one of these days, when the time was right—when they had some time—he and Will would make it official.
He said, “What about you? Anybody special?”
Ashe stopped digging through the desk drawers for a moment. His smile was twisted. “I wondered if you were ever going to ask. Yeah, I have someone. His name’s Josip. We’ve been together five years. Off and on.”
“Same as Will and me.” Well, not the off-and-on part. He and Will had been apart, yes, but never in their hearts. Corny as it sounded, he really believed that.
“Where’s Josip now?”
“He couldn’t get a travel visa.”
Hm.
“Where are you living in Europe? What do you do now?” Taylor asked.
“Croatia. I’m a director.”
“Director of?” He was thinking in terms of corporations, financial institutions, his new reality. A reality dominated by Webster Fidelity.
“Films. Movies. I direct films. I make movies.”
He couldn’t understand why Ashe’s eyes were suddenly bright and glittery, why he so abruptly sounded upset. “I had no idea. Wow. Good for you.”
Ashe said bitterly, “You don’t remember I was studying film in college? Do you remember anything? Do you ever think of me?”
“Well, of-of course,” Taylor was so startled, he actually—to his chagrin—stammered a little. “Of course I remember. Of course I think of you sometimes. I always hoped you were doing well, that you were happy and…things were good.”
“But you couldn’t be bothered to find out for yourself?”
What. The. Hell?
He said helplessly, “Ashe…”
Ashe laughed, shook his head. “I’m being an ass. Don’t mind me. You were my first love, so obviously it had an impact.”
“It had an impact on me too,” Taylor said. “It’s not like I was—am—so much older than you. I know I was sometimes oblivious. Maybe self-centered—”
“Insensitive, overbearing.”
Taylor fell silent.
“I’m kidding,” Ashe said quickly. “You were a kid. We were both kids. I don’t hold a grudge. I just wish it had meant more to you. You were one of the most important relationships in my life. I wish it had been that for you too. But that’s not realistic. I know.”
“It was an important relationship in my life as well. You were important to me. I was glad to see you last night, and I’m glad for the chance to help. I’m…sorry for any hurt I caused. Hopefully, helping you out now makes up for some of that.”
“No good deed goes unpunished,” Ashe said. “Can you just forget I said all that? You’re right about the Mexican coffees for breakfast. They’re a bad idea.”
Taylor refrained from comment, said instead, “Okay, well, I think I’ll go check in with the sheriff’s department. See what they can tell me.”
Ashe had gone back to searching the desk. “Don’t believe—” He broke off, saying, “Hey, look what I found!” and lifted out a Ruger LCP. “This was my dad’s.”
Taylor was not afraid of guns, not even after being shot, but something in the way Ashe handled that piece prickled the hair on the back of his neck.
He said without emotion, “I’m surprised your squatters left it.”
Ashe, still examining the pocket pistol, shrugged. “Missed it, I guess. They didn’t steal as much as you might think. That’s the funny part. But I guess that’s because Zamarion thought—thinks—he’s going to get it all anyway.”
He weighed the Ruger for a moment and then aimed it at Taylor’s face. His hand wasn’t quite steady. He smiled.
Time seemed to stop. Taylor could hear the wind moaning down the chimney, hear the clock ticking across the room, hear his heart thumping hard and steady in his ears.
“Remember teaching me to shoot?” Ashe said.
“I remember,” Taylor said. His mouth was dry, spitting the words out like bits of gravel. “We used to practice at the Beverly Hills Gun Club. Could you not point that at me?”
“It’s not loaded.”
Yeah, actually, that fucking gun was loaded. When you knew weapons as well as Taylor did, you could tell just from the heft of someone picking up a piece. It was loaded all right. But he knew with sickening certainty that if he said so, Ashe would fire at him just to prove a point.
He said in a flat, no-nonsense voice, “Put the gun down, Ashe.”
Ashe shrugged, lowered the Ruger. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Taylor resisted the desire to relieve his feelings by punching Ashe in his vacuous, glassy-eyed face. He said, “I was shot in the line of duty a couple of years ago. It…leaves an aftertaste.”
Ashe whistled. “You’re kidding. I’m really sorry. What was that like?”
“I don’t remember much about it,” Taylor lied, “but it’s not an experience I want to repeat.”
“No, I guess not. Obviously, I didn’t know.”
Until that very moment, Taylor had taken it for granted Ashe didn’t know, but something in the way he said it made him wonder.
Maybe Will had been right to question how Ashe had known where to find them. Maybe Ashe had been keeping track of Taylor through the years. It seemed unlikely, but some people did that—tracked their exes through social media, kept tabs through friends of friends. Clearly, Ashe had some unresolved feelings toward him, so maybe.
If that was the case, Ashe pointing a gun at him hadn’t merely been a dick move, it had been sadistic.
“Sure.” Taylor headed for the door, saying, “I’ll let myself out.”
Ashe followed. “You’ll keep me informed, right?”
“You bet.”
They walked down the long, tiled hall, out through the wood and iron door. The sunlight was almost blindingly bright, the air sweet. A seagull sat on the edge of one of tall blue urns, cranking its head this way and that, the better to see them.
Ashe said, “I don’t think I even thanked you for this, for trying to help me.”
“It’s okay.”
Taylor started down the wide front steps. From behind him, Ashe called, “I hate being here alone at night. I’m always afraid they’re going to come back. Like the Manson family.”
There was
a grim thought. Taylor turned back to face him.
Ashe said, “But then that’s the same reason I don’t dare leave. In case they’re waiting for a chance to move back in.”
“I’ll try to locate Zamarion today,” Taylor promised. “I’m pretty sure we’ll manage to work something out.”
“You were never short on confidence,” Ashe agreed.
Taylor grimaced. “No. I just knew how to fake it.”
Ashe shook his head. Blurted, “You know, you could come back here tonight. If you wanted.”
Taylor hesitated. Ashe’s fear touched him, but he didn’t want to come back to this house. It wasn’t just having a gun pointed at him or Ashe’s drinking or his troubling passive-aggressive comments. He wanted to see Will, talk to Will, get Will’s take on the situation. He wanted to sleep in Will’s arms, listen to the reassuring beat of Will’s heart, and take a moment to appreciate how very lucky they were. How lucky he was.
At the same time, the whole point of this was to help Ashe. And if Ashe was truly afraid?
But then Ashe made it easy for him. “One last night together. For old times’ sake?” His smile was sort of sly, sort of hopeful.
Taylor said, “What about Josip?”
“I won’t tell Will if you don’t tell Josip.”
Taylor smiled, shook his head. “Thanks. But I think we better let our last goodbye stand.”
Ashe laughed. “It was a record breaker. Wasn’t it?”
Taylor smiled again, continued down the steps.
Ashe called after him, “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
* * * * *
Ashe was right about one thing.
Down at the Carpinteria sheriff’s station, they did indeed think Mr. Dekker had, at the very least, toyed with burning down his mother’s house for the insurance money.
The interesting part was nobody blamed him.
“It’s a hell of a situation,” Lt. Don Capaldi told Taylor. “He needs money, but because of this lowlife loser, he can’t sell the house.”
Capaldi was a genial-looking fiftysomething with thinning gray hair, a neatly trimmed mustache, and warm brown eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses.
“How is it that Zamarion and the others managed to take possession of that house without anyone noticing?”