Foreign Relations: A Finn O'Brien Thriller (Finn O'Brien Thriller Series Book 2)

by Rebecca Forster

  "Where have you been? I've been so worried. I thought you changed your—"

  Sharon pulled up short when she saw that this was not who she was expecting, nor was it a person she wanted to see. Seventeen-going-on-twenty-seven, Matthew Stover was standing in the drive while a dirty little car did a wheelie and took off. They both looked at it and then at each other.

  "Too hung over to get yourself home, sweetie?" she drawled.

  Matt shook his head. "I'm not hung over. I'm not crashing."

  "Like hell. You look like shit and…"

  Sharon paused. He did look awful, tired and sick, but he looked different too. That's when she realized he was dressed like a normal kid, jeans, T-shirt and a work shirt over that. It was the first time in a long time that he wasn't wearing that old thing he had grabbed from Frederick's closet after he died. Sharon thought wanting to wear Frederick's coat after the funeral was a sweet homage but it got to be a bit much after a while. It wasn't like Frederick had been an outstanding father. Then again, he hadn't been an outstanding husband either, but Sharon wore the five-carat diamond he had given her for a good long while before she had to hock it. Not that there weren't things to admire about her late husband. The guy knew how to make movies and money. She wished he were still around to make the money; she had the movie thing knocked.

  "And why aren't you in school?" Sharon asked. "They shouldn't let you go to college before you graduate high school. Nobody can keep track of you. I don't even know which one you're supposed to be at anymore. It doesn't matter. I'm busy. Besides, I thought you were… What's wrong with you?"

  Matthew was just standing there looking at her, the sun glinting of the lenses of his expensive sunglasses. He looked like a Greek god. Sharon could appreciate his looks but she wasn't like some of the other ladies in the hills, the ones for whom related-by-marriage only meant they didn't have to leave the house to get some action. Sick broads all. Besides Sharon had sworn off men the minute Frederick took his last breath.

  "Did you hear me?" Sharon snapped and before he could answer she turned her back on him. "Oh, forget it. It doesn't matter."

  "I need help," Matthew called out before she was half way across the drive.

  Sharon froze when she heard the break in his voice. It was like he was a little kid again. He had been such a good little guy, so fun back then. Maybe he still was and it was she who had changed. It didn't matter which. He had his life and she had hers; she had real problems and he had rich kid problems. Sharon wondered what he would do if he found out that those problems might just be getting a little bigger. Then again, what could he do? He was a kid. She turned her head and then her body. She eyed him, trying to find a soft spot in her heart. Realizing she didn't have one for him, priding herself on her personal honesty, she said:

  "You're a big college man. You figure out whatever mess you got yourself into."

  "Sharon, please. I need to talk to Mr. Jerrod and I need you to go with me."

  Sharon stepped back as Matthew came toward her. The mention of the lawyer's name took her by surprise. She narrowed her eyes. On her guard now, she cut him off before he went down that road.

  "No. We don't."

  That should have been the end of the conversation but Matthew lunged for her and grabbed her arm, almost pulling her off her feet.

  "We have to go because it's about both of us."

  Stunned as she was, Sharon took a minute. Her eyes searched his angry young face. She felt the strength of his grip and was aware that, while she could defend herself, if it came to something physical at that moment Matthew had the upper hand. There was only one way to deal with it and that was head on. Sharon ripped her arm out of grasp and growled:

  "Don't you ever touch me like that again. Ever."

  Matthew's mouth opened, his eyes went wide with surprise. Sharon took two steps away from him, chin up, full of bravado that was only partly authentic. He had never touched her like that before, never questioned her, and never demanded anything. But she should have been expecting this given the way he had been acting in the last few months: angry and weird, watching her and the other women who came and went. She had taken to locking the house at night, even the connecting door between his wing and the main house. For all she knew Matt's genetics were kicking in. Maybe he had inherited his father's bizarre proclivities. Quickly, Sharon formulated a plan. Calling him out wasn't going to do any good, so she offered her own brand of an olive branch.

  "Let's be clear, sweetie, there is no us. I understand our interests intersect and we'll discuss that after your birthday. Right now, though, I cannot deal with one more thing. I have problems of my own, so get back to me after this project is done. Take it or leave it."

  Matthew nodded with a gesture so small he might as well not have made it, but Sharon didn't see it. She was already walking away, her back ramrod straight, her ripped arms rigid by her sides. As she went, it dawned on her that the little brat might not be such a dumb jock after all. Maybe he wanted her in Jerrod's office so he had a witness when they talked money. That took balls after all she had done for him: donating to the school because he'd screwed up and was going to be booted if she didn't come up with a few bucks, bailing him out with the parents of some chick who cried rape after a drunken night in the sack. Nope, she didn't have to do anything for a kid that wasn't hers. Besides, she couldn't bail him out even if she wanted to so that, as they say, was that.

  Matthew waited until he couldn't hear his stepmother's distinctive step on the stone walk. When she didn't return, he looked up at the sky and let the tears welling in his eyes fall back inside his head. With a deep breath, Matthew decided to do what any young man of privilege would do when he had screwed up – he would get stoned.

  He walked across the driveway that was big enough to double as a landing pad, went past the four-car garage, across the fancy lawn, and let himself into the small apartment that at one time had been the maid's quarters. Sharon didn't want a live-in – nor did she care much for having a kid around the house – so after his dad married her, Cordelia moved out and Matthew moved in. Sharon told Matthew any boy his age would kill for his own place. He believed it for a while; he even dug it for a while. Now Cordelia did the heavy lifting three times a week, slept in a home of her own and seemed happier for it. That made Matthew glad. He liked Cordelia. Somebody needed to be happy so it might as well be somebody who deserved it.

  He chucked his car keys onto a table, pulled his t-shirt out of his jeans and ran his hands up his six pack, not so much to reassure himself that he was still as hot as everyone said he was but to settle his gut. That gut of his felt like it was going to swallow him whole. He kicked at the clothes on the floor and felt like swiping the dirty dishes right off the counter. Instead, he stripped off his shirt on the way to the shower and tossed it in the pile.

  When he was done cleaning himself up, when he had taken a handful of pills to calm him down so his hands wouldn't shake any more, Matthew went to his room and lay naked on his bed. He lit a joint and looked through the sliding glass doors at the garden that was meant to give the maid her privacy. But the fence hadn't been built long enough and the vines hadn't grown tall enough which meant that Matthew could see out to the pool. Sharon was pacing the deck with her two favorite things in hand: a drink and her phone. He hated her more than he hated anyone in his life. He loved her too, but mostly he hated her because she had ruined his home. Defiled it. Given it away. Stole it. But he'd forgive her if she just smiled at him. Yes, if she would help him now he would forgive her.

  But she didn't smile so Matthew picked up the trophy, the one he got in the ninth grade for being MVP on the soccer team, balanced himself on his elbows, raised his right hand and threw that thing at the sliding glass door. The glass broke into a spider web of fissures and cracks, but it didn't shatter. He stayed propped up, looking at the damage thinking that he might as well be a window, cracked and split and doomed to stay standing until someone threw a final curve ball at
him. He hoped whoever threw that one knew what they were doing because he couldn't take another crack.

  As Matthew was thinking this he realized he was staring at Sharon. They looked at one another through the ruined glass. When she smirked, when she punched the buttons on her phone again, when she turned her back on him, Matthew lay down. It was then that he heard the sound of the phone in his room ringing. It seemed like that sound was coming from the far end of a tunnel. He knew he should get up and find that phone but he couldn't remember where he put it.

  And he was tired.

  And he was feeling kind of sick.

  Matthew turned over and curled into himself. He fell asleep knowing he didn't want to talk to anyone who would be calling that number anyway.

  Not now.

  Not anymore.

  CHAPTER 6

  When Finn saw him, the angry old man with the long white beard was sitting in front of a tiny tent on the bridge that was still blackened with soot. He was hardly the god of Finn's near-death hallucination; he was just a man who probably hadn't slept with a roof over his head in decades. His family – if he ever had one – would more than likely not recognize him. He was a man with no purpose and no power and that gave him every reason to be angry. Finn could tell, though, that circumstance was not what irritated him; this man was angry because that was the way he rolled.

  Finn went for him and Cori headed for the people on the other side of the bridge. The old man's eyes traveled the length of the detective, taking note of the heavy boots, the leather jacket, Finn's shaved head and his size. He didn't like what he saw one bit, evidenced by the fact that when Finn was almost upon him he raised his gnarled hand and pointed his misshapen finger and bellowed:

  "No further! You obey me, sir! Not one step more on my land. We've had enough of interlopers! The inn is full up!"

  To his left another man was setting up his camp, smoothing a tattered sleeping bag on the ground. He was younger than the old man but no less the worse for wear. His hands were dirty and his long hair matted, his eyes were burrowed deep into their dark sockets and his cheeks sink-holed under the bones. His mouth folded in on itself, a sure sign that he was missing a good number of teeth if he had any at all. His beard was salt and pepper stubble. He looked ancient but Finn put him in his forties. Clean him up, fix his teeth, put a suit and tie on him and he could pass for any doctor, lawyer or Indian chief running around L.A. His cart was full of the useless, the marginally marketable and the fanciful. He wore a T-shirt that rode up his arms as he worked and exposed the eagle, globe and anchor tattoo of the marines. He saw Finn looking at his arm and held the detective's gaze, leaving no doubt the symbols meant little to him anymore. The old man still railed so the younger one said:

  "Shut up old man. He's a cop."

  Finn gave a nod to the man with the tat and pulled out a badge that neither of them looked at. Finn took off his sunglasses to show his eyes to the old one, hoping he would look back and calm down.

  "I'm Detective O'Brien," Finn said. "And you are?"

  The old man stared at Finn's knees, disappearing the detective as was his right since he was breaking no law.

  "Number Four. You have to call him Number Four or he won't talk to you," the younger man said as he pulled a piece of twisted metal out of the cart and set it at the head of his sleeping bag. He reached back again for a towel, snapped it open and draped it over the metal frame.

  "Number Four, is it? I'm thinking you might remember me."

  Finn advanced a step and hunkered down when he was near enough to carry on a civil conversation. The old man narrowed his eyes, raised a sinewy arm, fisted his hand and pounded it against the air.

  "Don't tell me. No, don't tell me 'cause I ain't no rainbow, son. Know what that is? Rainbow? It's military talk. Yeah, I got training. I got—" In the next instant Number Four cut his eyes away from Finn. "There she is. Madam Sage. Over here, lovely. I've got the tent all ready for you! Sleep in my lovin' arms tonight."

  Finn kept his eyes on Number Four, trying to discern if he was insane or just crazy. There was a difference on the street. Insane and off the meds was dangerous and unreliable; just plain crazy was a person who could be a cop's best friend. The one thing crazy street people could afford to own was the truth. When the old man came back to Finn, he straightened up his back and he cricked his neck.

  "Okay, tell me. Don't want to work none too hard tonight. But I could tell you who you were if I was thinkin' hard enough."

  "No doubt," Finn agreed. "I was helping the people in the accident the other day. Do you remember that? The accident down there on the freeway?"

  "Remember it? Remember it? Like the bowels of hell, it was. Like hell on earth and all because of that woman."

  "Yes, you are correct." Finn leaned forward to encourage him. "The woman jumped off the bridge, and I was wondering if you knew her. Did you know the woman, Number Four?"

  "I did not, sir!" The old man spat on the ground next to his tent. "I didn't know her. Didn't know him, neither. That's why they couldn't stay here. Those two were going to sit here, on my bridge. Nobody stays here unless I say. The shits. The little shits."

  "You saw someone with the woman then?"

  From the corner of his eye, Finn saw the tatted man's eyes flicker even as he affected interest in nothing save for the things that belonged to him.

  "Can you tell me who she was with, my friend?" Finn asked of the tattooed man, but he ignored the detective.

  "A man. She was with a man," the old one barked.

  Number Four now leaned toward Finn. He opened his mouth wide. Finn could see that a dentist had his way with a cavity or two at sometime in the man's life. Just as quickly Number Four slammed his mouth shut, pulled his fingers across his lip and zipped it. Finn sighed. His knees were tiring so he sat down on the sidewalk, one knee up, the other leg folded under him.

  "Ask permission," Number Four barked. "Ask permission, sir, if you are going to stay here and sit. This is my place and I say who—"

  "He's a cop you crazy old fool. He can sit wherever he wants."

  The younger man wailed as if the sound of Number Four's voice was painful to him. He slammed down on his sleeping bag, threw himself onto his back and put his head under what Finn could now see was a bent pizza stand.

  "Be polite, Taylor!" the old man roared.

  "I'll not be staying any longer if you can tell me about the man or the lady. That's what I've come for. Just some information," Finn assured Number Four. "Since you are an important man here, you must know the comings and goings. Surely, now, you know their names. The woman and the man who were on the bridge that night?"

  "You're a foreigner, are you?" Number Four narrowed his eyes and put a finger behind each ear and pushed so that his big, old man appendages looked a little like tubas attached to the side of his head.

  "I'm hailing from Ireland as a boy."

  "Taylor! Taylor! We ever fight Ireland?" Number Four called. The man with his head under the towel-tent groaned.

  "No." Finn answered for Taylor. "No. The United States and Ireland are friends, but I'm a citizen of this country."

  "Okay then. Fine. We can get to it. Can't be too careful, you know. America for America, home of the brave and free and such." Number Four let his ears go, satisfied that he wasn't talking to an enemy. He rubbed under his nose with one finger.

  "Yes, sir. Couldn't agree more," Finn said. "Now, what about the man?"

  "I didn't see him. Couldn't see his face."

  "Was he tall? Thin? Big? Young?"

  Number Four shot up and swung a hand over his head. "So high. A mighty fellow. But narrow. Yes, narrow and mighty."

  Finn made a mental note. Six feet.

  "And the woman?"

  Number Four's hand lowered a few inches. Five-eight. Finn knew the old man was spot on and that was good.

  "What about hair? Eyes? Coloring?"

  Number Four sank to the ground once more.

  "The woman wa
s a darky," he whispered and gave Finn a wink for good measure. Then it was all business again. "The man had him a baseball cap and a big jacket. I think he was not a darky. He looked familiar."

  "What kind of jacket?"

  "You know, a jacket. A big mother-of-a-jacket. Too hot for now. He was an idiot like you – wearing a jacket." Number four lowered his voice. "This is a desert, you know." He raised his voice again. "A big jacket with a letter. Here."

  He hit his chest just above his heart and pounded a bit.

  "A letterman's jacket," came Taylor's voice from beneath the towel.

  "Ah, and do you remember the colors of this jacket?" Finn asked.

  "I don't pay no mind to fashion. Not me. It was big. Too big."

  "Red," Taylor said. "The guy's shoes were new."

  "Could you perhaps join us, Mr. Taylor?" Finn asked.

  "Don't you 'mister' him," Number Four ordered.

  Finn's chin dipped and he took a minute to consider his options. Number Four was the one he needed because Taylor had not been at the exact place where the woman jumped. Finn would have remembered him if he had stood beside this man on the bridge that day.

  He glanced over his shoulder. Cori was having a laugh with three people, one of them a woman. He took a page from her playbook, licked his lips and changed his tone so that it was just a touch brighter.

  "Right you are, Number Four. Always go straight to the top, heh?" Finn smiled. Number Four nodded. Finn took that as a good sign. "Do you know anyone who has a jacket like that? It sounds like a very nice jacket."

  "Horace, the leech. Horace wears a jacket like that sometimes. Not always, but I seen it," Number Four answered. "God damn boil on the butt of mankind, Horace is. Selling protection, the crap head. He takes money from my people. I don't give him a farthing. Bad, bad man."

  "And where would I find Horace?" Finn asked.

  "Not here! I kicked his butt off my bridge. I twisted his arm. I popped him one. I took him by the—"

  Suddenly, the towel flew off the pizza stand and Taylor bolted upright. The sunken man, the defeated man who had once been one of the few and the proud, rose up like a phoenix. He was taller than he had first seemed. Finn got to one knee, balancing on the ball of his other foot, hands loose and ready should the man cause trouble. Instead Taylor flapped his arms then hit his head with both hands – one side and the other – as he screamed at Number Four.