by Sally John
Rosie heard a muffled reply.
“Right,” Erik said. “Maria. So here we have this odd little nunlike woman coming into—nay, bursting into—the lives of the von Trapp family, waving her magic guitar like a wand and before you know it, everyone is happy. Don’t the parallels just jump out and grab you?”
“You’re calling me an odd little nunlike woman.”
He roared so loudly, she had to hold the phone away from her ear for several seconds.
“Erik, are you still on medication?”
“Oh, yes! Sweet, sweet oxy!”
His reference to painkillers sold illegally on the street sent a chill through her.
“Delgado.” He chuckled. “I have a prescription.”
“I really need to get back to work.”
“Wait, please. I’m sorry. There really is a point to this phone call.” She sighed to herself. “But can you remember it?”
“Yeah.” His voice turned somber. “I can remember it. It’s the reporters. I know why they do it. I mean I’ve done it myself, but man, enough’s enough. The station keeps calling, like I owe them. In their dreams. This morning, some newspaper guy showed up here. My grandfather cut him off at the pass. Luckily Papa didn’t have his shotgun in hand.”
“It might have been my LA Times guy. He tried to eat dinner here last night. My dad overheard him questioning a waitress and tossed him out on his ear, refused to let him take his half-eaten burrito with him. Face it, Beaumont, we’re big news. Somebody else will take our place tomorrow.”
“We could join forces and make a ton of money. We’ll do a book and then the documentary. Or a movie. Yeah, a movie would rake in the most dough.”
“No comment, and now I’m going to hang up. I really have to—”
“She’s filing something.”
“What?”
“Felicia. Some reporter just called and asked me what I think about her lawsuit. I don’t have the foggiest notion what he’s referring to.”
“Did you call your lawyer?”
“Not yet.”
“Maybe it’s not true.”
“I’m sure it is. That’s why we need to do the book and the movie. Felicia adores money. She’ll want us to buy her off with the big bucks.”
“We? Us?”
“She’s suing the police department too. Evidently my blood on her carpet is their fault. They gave you a gun and let you out with it. Bang, bang.”
“She can’t—oh!” Her voice hit soprano. A few select Spanish phrases embellished her rant. “She can’t do that! That conniving, ungrateful, despicable—oh! She won’t get away with this. She will not. I will not lose my job over some moronic, bottle-blonde parasite who thinks she can flounce her skinny—oh!”
The kitchen went dead silent.
Rosie glanced around. Everyone stood perfectly still, watching her, concern evident on each face.
“My, my,” Erik said. “You have a temper, Maria.”
She closed her eyes. Maria. The guy was nuts.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I just wanted to give you a heads-up. And to thank you, from the bottom of my black heart, for last night.”
“Beaumont, just call your lawyer and don’t go near her.” She slapped the phone against its base. The third time it stayed put. She spun toward the waiting crowd. “What?”
Her cousin glanced at one of his cooks, pointed to the long-handled spoon in the pot, and let go of it. He walked over to Rosie and wrapped his arms around her.
It was Friday noon, every table filled with people wanting tacos yesterday, and the staff dropped everything to comfort her.
She buried her face in Ramón’s shoulder.
Every odd little nunlike woman should have such a family.
You really think we’ll see him?” Lexi twiddled the straw in her glass. Ice cubes whirred, soda foamed. Her eyes, the same brown-speckled green as her brother Erik’s, darted continually, scanning the noisy, crowded bar.
Across the tall pub table, Rosie wondered again if her plan was half-baked. Who did she think she was trying to nab the alleged guy who allegedly harmed Erik? While on suspension? With the help of an apoplectic private citizen?
Lexi puffed a breath. “What if he recognizes me?”
Forcing a calm she didn’t feel into her voice, Rosie said, “Relax. I observe people all the time. Generally speaking, they are so into themselves, they really don’t notice others, especially not those quiet blenders around them.”
“Quiet blender. Like me.”
“It’s not a bad thing.”
Lexi shrugged a shoulder.
“You said the guy didn’t look directly at you, that he was totally zeroed in on Erik, who was ignoring you by then, not giving any indication he was with you. Trust me. This stranger won’t recognize you tonight, a week later.”
“Why would he come back here?”
“He had a hand in creating big news. He’ll need to gloat. My guess is Friday is the busy night here with regulars winding up their work week.”
“But nobody knows this person exists.”
The investigation remained under wraps. The fact about drugs in Erik’s system at the time of the attack had not been reported. Thanks to his airing of dirty laundry on television, the public assumed they knew his motive. Of course he went after his cheating girlfriend. What self-respecting notable figure wouldn’t? Although a pesky reporter had traced his steps back to the bar, no one had relayed the conversation Lexi overheard.
That thought always brought Rosie up short. Was Lexi telling the truth? Could Erik even remember what happened? Who knew about either of them? Lexi would go to the mat for her brother. He was a hotshot, a type that might pop pills and threaten his girlfriend and beat up an old pal.
She said, “It doesn’t matter that no one knows what this guy did. People are talking. He’ll want to hear it. He’ll want to talk. Maybe he’ll even confess. That’d be a gift. Aw, nuts.”
“What?” Lexi looked over her shoulder, following Rosie’s gaze.
Which focused on Bobby doing a good impersonation of a Jet Ski slicing through the ocean.
“Nuts!” she muttered again.
“Who’s that?”
“You don’t want to know.”
On his way past a nearby table, he grabbed a stool in one hand. Reaching their table, he plunked it down backward and straddled it. He dangled his hands over the high ladder back, clasping them. The knuckles whitened. His face was tight, closed up—like when he cuffed the slimiest-of-the-slime pimps and pushers.
Rosie swallowed.
“Delgado, tell me I’m hallucinating.”
She grimaced.
“What in the—” He clamped his lips together and gave a slow blink. “What are you doing here?”
The scene grew vivid. Music, heavy on the bass, rumbled, an undercurrent to the cacophony of a hundred voices. It all ricocheted off brick walls, black chrome décor, and a two-story-high ceiling. Sweet mixtures of designer perfumes chased on the heels of sour mash.
At last her throat opened. “I’m having a drink.”
His eyes skimmed her coffee mug and settled back on her face. The cornflower blue all but disappeared.
“With a friend,” she added.
He looked at Lexi.
Rosie said, “This is my partner, Bobby Grey.”
Under his glare, Lexi seemed to shrink. “H-hi.”
He ignored the greeting and turned his gaze back on Rosie.
“Bobby, you look like a yuppie.” She touched the sleeve of his tweedy sports coat. He never dressed like that. He was undercover. “Nice. You fit right in with this crowd.”
“You shouldn’t be here. We have things under control. Go home.”
“It’s my job that’s on the line.”
“It’s my job to save your job. For crying out loud, Rosie, the whole department is behind you. This outrage is a reflection on all of us. Now go home and let us work.”
At the word “outrage” she fli
nched, awash in guilt.
She assumed others were there, in search of the mystery man, the missing link who could explain away Erik’s bizarre behavior and maybe help place Rosie’s actions in a more favorable light.
She wanted to tell Bobby her idea to identify the guy, but she hesitated. Lexi was her ace in the hole. He’d blow a gasket if he knew who she was. Rosie was suspended and had no business getting involved with the Beaumonts.
A voice hallooed. Rosie looked toward the sound.
And then she slid halfway off the stool, wishing to disappear underneath the table.
Resplendent in a V-neck dress of jaguar print spandex, blonde hair cascading from a jeweled clip on top of her head, Felicia Matthews strode toward them, arms spread wide. “Lexi Beaumont!”
The world moved at warp speed, everything happening at once.
Bobby hissed in her ear. “Lexi Beaumont? As in Erik Beaumont’s sister? Are you crazy?”
A camera flashed.
Felicia embraced Lexi. “Oh! Please tell me he’s fine?”
Rosie’s leg bumped against Bobby’s as they both twisted off their stools and hit the floor running. They were quickly brought up short. People had closed in and blocked their escape. She resisted the urge to lift her elbows and charge through them.
“Officer Grey!” Felicia’s voice rose again. “Is that you?”
Bobby swiveled back around.
He never should have done that.
Rosie kept going, pushing her way through a wall of bodies.
“Ohmygosh!” Felicia squealed. “Get out of town! It is you! I can’t believe this! Brett!”
Brett? Rosie stopped and turned, peering between shoulders.
Yep. There he stood, the Padres first baseman, one eye still bruised, white tape across his nose.
A camera clicked.
“Brett! This is him!” Felicia’s voice carried easily above the noise. “He’s the one who saved us.”
Rosie cringed at Bobby’s mottled face as he shook hands.
A week ago, medics had loaded an unconscious Brett into one ambulance and Erik into another. Rosie rode with the gunshot victim to the hospital. Bobby stayed with other officers at Felicia’s house, attending to details at the crime scene.
It was how they worked. They made a good team. With little discussion they looked out for each other.
Until now.
Rosie didn’t have a clue how to cover his back in the present situation. The situation she had created.
More cameras flashed.
Rosie turned away. Head down, she hurried to the exit.
Thirty-Six
Lexi finally disengaged herself from Felicia’s syrupy piffle and left the bar.
Honestly! The woman had cheated on Erik—with Brett!—and then was concerned about his welfare? Yeah, right. The cameras were rolling, or at least clicking. It was all about Felicia. Gauging from the crowd’s smiles and applause, two-timing enhanced the woman’s public image. Go figure.
And what was with Brett? Was this a publicity ploy for him as well? He’d only briefly greeted her, the mousey little sister Erik’s friends had always easily ignored.
Biting a thumbnail, Lexi scanned the busy downtown sidewalks, looking for Rosie. They had ridden together in Rosie’s car. If she left her stranded, how would she get home?
She spotted her then, with her partner, across the street and half a block down. They stood in shadows, away from restaurants and storefronts.
Lexi sighed in relief and hurried toward them, glad to see Rosie hadn’t abandoned her. She didn’t seem the type. She was so friendly, so confident, so in control.
So in tears?
Lexi paused, one foot on the curb, one in the gutter.
Rosie motioned to her to come closer, but she spoke to Bobby. “I’m sorry.”
He slapped his hand on the wall and moved his head back and forth, a mock banging of it against the bricks. “Numbskull. Numbskull.”
“I’m sorry.”
He faced her. “Stop apologizing and agree with me. I knew better than to come. I wasn’t here officially.”
“But I created the whole entire situation. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.” She swiped the back of her hand over the tear streams on her cheeks. “It’s all my fault.”
“Tonight is not your fault.”
“If you weren’t here, she wouldn’t have seen you and recognized—”
“It is not your fault that she recognized me.” He barked some indecipherable word and slid his hand over his almost-bald scalp. “It is not your fault that I made sure she would recognize me. Don’t you get it? I flirted with her.”
“Bobby—”
“I did! Twice. After the shooting and—”
“Typical hero-damsel-in-distress syndrome.”
“Just let me say this. I went above and beyond the call of duty dispensing comfort that night. Okay? No other officer was going to help my damsel in distress. And don’t forget the time we got called to Beaumont’s place and I walked her to her car.” He placed his hands on his hips. “There. I said it. Thanks to my idiotic response, she would have known me tonight even if I hadn’t been sitting at the same table with Beaumont’s sister.”
“Bobby, you do not flirt. I’ve seen you in all sorts of spots with women way more attractive than her, falling all over you, giving you every opportunity. You’re Mr. Professional Stoic. What did you do? Make eye contact with her? Smile?”
“This was different. I felt something. A connection. A spark. I don’t know.”
Lexi had to interrupt. She stepped closer. “That’s just Felicia vibes. She does it to all men. My brother—not Erik, the other one— thinks she’s a horse’s hind end, but he’s affected the same way. If she interviewed Danny, he swears he’d spill out everything he’s ever said and done and embellish it all.”
Bobby stared at her for a long moment. “You’re kidding.”
“It’s true. She’s bad news. No pun intended.”
“Thanks. I’ll tell my wife.” He threw a glance at Rosie. “So. You’re Lexi Beaumont.”
She nodded.
“I take it you’re here to ID the guy.”
“I want to help.”
“Yeah, well, unfortunately, he probably ID’d you tonight.”
“What do you mean?”
“If he’s in there, he couldn’t have missed the Felicia-Brett show. He might not have known you before, but she practically told everybody who you are. Including the Snapshot USA reporter and photographer.”
Lexi stared at him. Snapshot USA was a weekly magazine available at every checkout stand in the nation.
Rosie sniffed. “Yeah, for real. They’re here, along with San Diego in Motion. Another officer just told Bobby. I’m so sorry, Lexi. I never should have asked you to do this.”
Bobby said, “She’s right. We’ve got a sketch based on information you gave to our artist. We’ll bring in anyone matching the description and you can find him in a lineup, behind a two-way mirror.” He emphasized the last words.
“But he doesn’t know I was here last week with Erik.”
Bobby and Rosie exchanged a look. He said, “Unless he saw you last week.”
“I-I don’t think he did.”
“Depends on how calculating he was. If it helps any, I think he’s just a mean prankster, jealous of the famous folk, not a full-on psycho. He found an opportunity to stick it to your brother.”
“Still,” Rosie said, “he might have noticed you last week.”
Bobby nodded. “And witnessed tonight. Heard I’m a cop, thanks to Felicia.”
Rosie said, “And then figured we’re on to him. He’ll not want to be noticed.”
“Bottom line, we don’t think he’ll bother you, Lexi.”
They did their look-exchange thing again.
Lexi pulled her sweater more tightly about herself and crossed her arms. A vague unease twisted into a physical sensation. Fetal curl on the sidewalk seemed imminent. “You ‘don’t
think.’ That’s not exactly a guarantee.”
Rosie held up her arms and let them drop at her sides. “No. No, it’s not a guarantee. Could you go to your parents’ house?”
Lexi cringed.
“Or,” Rosie hastened to say, probably because she had witnessed Lexi’s abrupt exit from the dinner table the previous night, “you’re welcome to come home with me. Spend the night. I live in my dad’s backyard, in a small guesthouse, with an alarm system and dead bolt locks. It’s yours for as long as you need it. I’ll sleep in my old bedroom inside my dad’s.”
Lexi felt the earth move beneath her, a quake’s ripple. Her legs trembled. The whole world was disintegrating before her very eyes, from the wildfire destruction of her grandparents’ safe harbor to her parents’ weirdness to Danny’s aloofness. Not to mention the Zak debacle. Now she couldn’t go home to her own apartment?
There were nightmares there, yes, but also her only bits of solace: painting and food, the latter exactly what she wanted, available exactly when she wanted it. She couldn’t go to Danny’s. Nor Jenna’s, nor Erik’s. She couldn’t go to the hacienda. She thought of her boss, a couple of friends. It wouldn’t work with any of them. She had to go to a stranger’s place?
“I’m sorry, Lexi. It’s only temporary. The undercover guys are good. Bobby and I aren’t—”
“Rosie, why wouldn’t this guy recognize you and find me through you? Your picture has been all over the newspapers.”
She smiled. “Do I look like that picture?”
Even in the shadows, Lexi could tell that she did not. The photo was an official police department shot. In contrast, Rosie now wore her hair loose, full and wavy, down to her shoulders. A hint of makeup softened her eyes. Her lips were fuller, with a touch of cerise-red gloss, and they curled upward frequently. The fuzzy turtleneck removed the last traces of her cop-like persona.
“No, you don’t.”
“Besides that, some people think we Latinas all look alike.” She winked. “What do you say? I don’t want to frighten you, but in all honesty, I’d feel better.”
“Ditto,” Bobby said.
Lexi squeezed her arms more tightly over her stomach and nodded. She would go home with Rosie.
Thirty-Seven
Mr. Erik.” Tuyen felt sorry for her incapacitated cousin, but he was making a mess out of the lettuce. “Not do that way.”