What if it was in their grasp? What if there was a clue in the family photos? Annalise had said photos sometimes held surprises, that when she looked at them again, she’d find things she hadn’t noticed the first time. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but hell, if there was a speck of evidence under his nose, Michael wanted to find it. He wanted to know if there were any photos that would tell him about his mother’s relationship with Luke Carlton, and how it had played a part in his father’s death.
He flipped through picture after picture from that fateful year, from posed school photos, to shots of Ryan playing hockey, to pictures of Shannon dancing.
“Let me have that one,” Victoria said, grabbing at a photo of his sister on stage, leaping high. “I need to frame that and give it to her.”
Michael smiled and draped an arm around his grandmother, squeezing her shoulder. “She’ll love it.”
His sister didn’t dance after she tore her ACL in college. She’d become a world-class choreographer instead.
Michael and his grandmother thumbed through more pictures. Shots of dance recitals, pictures of sunsets, images of family barbecues, including one of his dad flipping burgers with his grandfather, then one with Michael standing at his father’s side, laughing together.
A lump rose in his throat, and his fingers lingered on that shot.
“I remember that day,” he whispered.
His grandmother’s eyes shined with wistfulness. “You do? Tell me more,” she said, resting her chin in her hand.
He shook his head, surprised at the clarity of the memory. “It was just an average Sunday in the fall. October, I think. Dad grilling with Grandpa. Nothing special. They were placing bets on whose barbecue sauce was better, and at some point the stakes were so crazy, we all cracked up. We were all there. Hanging out at your house. I think Ryan and Colin were watching college football, and Shannon was playing with the dog you had then.”
Victoria smiled widely, her eyes misty. “Rusty. He was a good dog. Your dad liked him. I can see it all now,” she said, then tapped the photo. “Why don’t I have this one framed, too?”
Michael scoffed and tipped his head to the walls of her home. They were thick with framed family photos. “Can’t frame everything.”
“But I can try.” She snagged that photo, sighing as she regarded the shot of the men grilling. “The barbecue was the day after Thomas went to that party. I remember it now.” She traced a shaking finger across the bags under his father’s eyes. “He was so tired as they’d been up real late. He and your mother went to a work function.”
Michael sat up straighter. That’s what Annalise had mentioned. “The party,” Michael hissed. “That’s what I want to see. Do you think anyone took pictures of the party?”
“Not me. I wasn’t there.”
“But what if my dad had them? If someone had taken pictures from the work party…” He let his voice trail off, desperate hope coloring his tone.
She gestured to the pile. “Let’s hunt.”
He wanted to find those photos. He grabbed the next chunk of pictures and methodically studied each one. There was no reason to believe there would be pictures of a party here in his grandma’s home, but she saved everything, so there was always a chance. If someone had taken pictures at the event, his dad might have held onto them…
His heart stopped, then started again. He’d found it. A shot of his mother and father in front of a work banner at a company party for West Limos. Flipping to the back, he checked the date. Yep. The year it all went down. He gripped the edge of the photo as dark anger coiled through him. His mother took from him the person he loved most. His insides churned viciously as he studied the two of them. But it was only them posing for the camera, like some kind of company photographer had shot a picture.
He flicked to the next one. A foursome. Sanders and Becky stood next to his parents. Sanders clutched his wife’s shoulder tightly, and she smiled for the camera. Michael’s eyes roamed to his mother. He saw her looking to the right, just outside the frame.
Determined to follow her gaze somehow, he tore through the other pictures from the party. All in front of the banner, each one a little farther over, like the photographer was moving sideways. There were only a few more. As he lined them up, he could tell where his mother’s eyes had drifted just beyond the edge of the banner.
To a man playing a piano.
Luke Carlton.
Was Annalise right? Had his mother met her lover at his father’s work party? Why would Luke be at a work party?
“I need to talk to Sanders again. See if he remembers anything from that night. Anything about Luke talking to my dad, maybe. Anything that could make it clear what role he played.”
But when he called Sanders a little later from the car, his dad’s old friend didn’t answer.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Michael rapped on the window outside the detective’s office. John Winston sat in his chair with his back to him, talking on the phone. He swiveled around, holding up a finger to ask Michael to wait.
As John wrapped up his call, Michael jammed his hands into his pockets, tension curling his muscles tight as the sounds of the police department filtered from behind him—the crackle of the radio, phone calls about cases, the shuffling of papers.
John nodded, then laughed, and at last hung up the phone. He rose, opened the door, and let Michael in.
“How’s everything?” John asked, clicking the door shut.
“It’s fine.” The two of them weren’t known for their small talk, so Michael took a seat in the wooden chair offered him.
“What have you got?” John asked. After Sanders didn’t pick up, Michael had called John to tell him he had some details to share.
“Are you any closer to getting Luke? Closer to getting T.J?”
John sighed and scrubbed a hand across his jaw. “We’re working on it every day. We’re doing everything we can.”
Frustration slid through Michael’s veins at how goddamn easily Luke Carlton had glided through life, avoiding arrest, covering his tracks, operating as a criminal so far undercover. “I don’t know if it’s a long shot, but I think”—he stopped, pausing before he said his mother’s name because it tasted acrid—“Dora Prince met Luke at a work party,” he said, then showed the detective the photos.
John nodded several times. “Yeah, I think you’re right.”
“You think I’m right?” Michael repeated, because he was hoping for something more.
“I’ve got similar information.”
“So this isn’t news to you?”
“I’ve been working leads on this case for a long time. This is one of them.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that’s how they met?”
“Because it’s not my job to tell you every detail. This is a police investigation. I’m grateful for all you do—don’t get me wrong. But I’ve got to be able to investigate, and sharing every detail with the family can slow me down on the way to answers.” He took a beat and then leveled his gaze at Michael. “The answers we both want.”
“Fine,” Michael said, reminding himself that even though John was the gatekeeper, they had the same end goal. So he tamped down his annoyance. “Let’s put our heads together, then. I’ve got some thoughts.”
John nodded. “What’s on your mind?”
Michael took his time before he spoke, carefully weighing each word so that he could extract something from the detective. There was so much on his mind, so much he wanted to know—like why the Royal Sinners were so goddamn powerful, why they were stronger than any average street gang, and why they were smarter, nimbler, and had more firepower. But those were broader questions, and they wouldn’t necessarily get him any closer to the answers he needed. Like the depth of the connection between his mother and the head of the gang.
“The question we both want to know is why,” he said. “We know my mother’s lover is the head of the gang. We know the shooter was in the gang. We know the other accomplices are part o
f it, too. What I’d like to know is how my mother got involved with the Sinners, and did it somehow start at my father’s work? If she met Luke at a work party, was he a regular there? Luke operates undercover, and that makes me question everything about where he’s been and what he’s done. Were the other guys in the gang involved in these work parties? Did they know my dad?” Michael held out his hands. “Maybe I’m reaching. But what if there’s something to it?”
John met his stare straight on. “That’s what I want to know, too. I want to know if work is where they met, and if so, if it sheds new light on the accomplices. Luke played piano at a handful of these parties at your father’s company. What does that tell us?” he asked rhetorically. “Not enough on its own, but now that we’ve learned he’s part of the Sinners, we have reason to believe he has knowledge about a number of gang-ordered hits over the years. That’s why we want to know if your father’s murder had a deeper connection to the gang. Was this just your mother’s hit, or a part of something bigger? And did Luke know about it?”
“It seems likely that he knew. Doesn’t it?”
* * *
Yes, it would seem like Luke had to have known about the hit. It would seem, too, that Luke was deeply involved in the planning of the murder. It would sure as hell seem as if Luke fucking Carlton had gotten away with several other murders over the years, based on the information John had obtained from his informants.
But evidence was evidence, and it needed to be hard.
John and his men were getting closer to Luke, but there were things he simply couldn’t share with Michael—details he couldn’t speculate on with a witness or family member. Things like how the shooter’s son, Lee Stefano, had started singing. They’d nabbed him a few months ago on grand theft of iPhones, of all things. The kid was trying to follow in his dad’s footsteps, living a life of crime. But several weeks in jail had softened him up, and Lee had started talking. He’d shared more about the two men who’d looked out for him after his daddy went to the big house—Kenny and T.J. Nelson, his father’s accomplices in the murder of Thomas Paige.
Turned out, Lee knew some details about T.J.’s whereabouts these days, and John was hoping to piece together enough information to find that slippery bastard and take him into custody, too. John clenched his fists, thinking of the rap sheet on T.J. Nelson, and the long trail of evidence linking him to other crimes over the years. Some of John’s colleagues had gathered insight into the gang as a whole, and the way the Royal Sinners had expanded in power, operating a lucrative drug ring throughout the city of Las Vegas and across the state.
Connecting the dots was proving more complicated than he’d expected. Did the hit have anything to do with the gang, or with things Thomas might have learned about the Sinners? Or was this simply what they’d thought all along, a crime designed so a woman could be with the man she loved?
Those questions kept John up at night, but he had witnesses to talk to and leads to chase down, which might bring him answers. As soon as he had the details, he’d get that fucker.
“Listen, I appreciate you doing everything you can,” John said, dragging a hand through his dark blond hair, taking his time with each word. “You need to be careful, but I can’t tell you not to ask around. What I can tell you is I’ve heard that T.J. had words with Thomas Paige a few weeks before he died. That conversation took place at your father’s work.” That was why it mattered to the investigation that Dora had likely met Luke at West Limos. John needed to tie Luke to T.J., and if he could just pull those threads a little tighter together, he’d be able to do it. “I’d like to know why, and what was said.”
Michael nodded, an intense look in his eyes. “If you’d like to know, then I’d like to know, too.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
On the way to gym that evening, Michael tried to reach his father’s friend once again. Becky answered, but when he asked for Sanders, she said, “He’s busy for a few days, hon.”
“Busy with what?” Michael asked, trying to sound casual rather than suspicious, even though he was starting to feel that way.
“He got called out of town. He has things he needs to get done before he finishes work,” she said as he turned on the blinker of his black BMW to exit the highway.
“Hmm. Okay. But I’ve got to see him soon, Becky. Can you have him call me as soon as he can?”
“Of course, love.”
The line went dead.
As Michael hoisted a barbell a little later, he replayed the conversation with John, then the brief chat with Becky, trying to read between their words, to line them up like missing puzzle pieces alongside his conversation with Annalise earlier. As he pushed up the heavy weight in his bench press, he zeroed in on some ideas, but they were fuzzy, hazy around the edges, and he didn’t want to jump to conclusions. He lowered the bar, wondering if there was more to Becky’s odd behavior, to Sanders’s absence, and to the conversation T.J. had with his father.
Now, that—he’d sure as hell like to know more about that.
He’d seen Sanders a few weeks ago, along with his dad’s other friend, Donald, at the Golden Nugget. That was where Donald dealt cards, and Michael had joined them for a few rounds, winning handily each time.
“Just like his dad. Thomas always beat us at poker,” Sanders had said, shaking his head and laughing, a hint of pride in his voice. Michael had reined in a grin because he loved those comparisons and ate them up like candy.
Anything to connect him to his dad.
They’d all got to talking when Donald’s shift ended, and the older men mentioned something about trouble at his dad’s company way back when. They didn’t have a ton of details, nor did Michael, but he could recall his father mentioning something similar at one of their Chinese restaurant meals. He just wished he knew what sort of trouble, and if that trouble was connected to Luke. He had nothing to go on now, since West Limos had come up clean in his research into the company. But the details nagged at Michael as he poked and prodded at his own memories of things his dad had said to him.
He wished he had Annalise’s memory—precise and, not surprisingly, photographic. His was blurrier, and he often wondered if it was because of how he found out his dad was gone. The image splashed cruelly before his eyes, and he grimaced as he jammed the weights back in the holder. He sat up straight with his hands on his knees, trying to shake off the scene that sometimes replayed unexpectedly.
Taking measured breaths, he focused on the small details around him now. The pounding music in his earbuds. The clang of barbells. The whir of bicycle machines.
They reset him to the present.
But the problem was the present was mired in so much uncertainty. He was on the outside, peeking in, trying to assemble the picture while only having access to the barest bits and pieces. He tried to fill in the blanks as he cycled through all the weights then headed to the rowing machine. Sixty sweaty minutes later, he called Mindy, his sounding board, as he drove home.
“Should we get Morris to look into the company my dad worked at, too?” he asked, mentioning the private eye’s name after he’d relayed his conversation with the detective.
“Hmm,” Mindy said, seeming to mull over the idea. “I’m not so sure. That’s a bit different than having Morris tail Luke Carlton.”
“I know,” Michael said with a sigh. “That’s the issue. Which path to send him down.”
“Honestly, I think we need to keep him on Luke, since you know there’s likely a connection. And I think you need to talk to the people your dad knew then. Donald, Sanders—those guys. See if they know anything about the conversation with T.J.”
“If I can even get Sanders to return a fucking call,” Michael said with a huff, as he turned onto his street.
“Go see him, then.”
But something about that idea seemed unwise. With Becky acting odd, Michael wasn’t so sure how well her husband would take to a surprise visit. He shook his head, even though Mindy couldn’t see him. “I’ve
got to work other angles. I’m going to see what I can dig up. I’ll let you know what I find.”
He said good-bye, then pulled into the parking garage at his building and headed up the elevator to his home. Once inside, he went straight for his computer, logging into some of the databases that he and Ryan relied on for security and background checks at work. He entered the name of the limo company his father had worked for, but nothing new surfaced. He’d been down this road before. When the investigation had been reopened, he’d looked into West Limos. He wasn’t suspicious, per se. Just being thorough. It was owned by some guy named West Strassman. For years the same guy had owned it from his home base in Dallas. Now he was retired, living in Canada and keeping busy fishing. But he still owned a bunch of businesses around the country, with managers at each to run the day-to-day operations.
Michael leaned back in his desk chair, sighing heavily. Maybe he was reaching. Maybe the connection was simply that his mother had happened to meet her lover when he’d been playing piano at a work party. Got to know him, started selling drugs for his Royal Sinners to make some cash on the side. Got greedy and wanted more dough to cover her debts. Wanted to run away with her lover.
Killed her husband.
Yeah, that seemed as plausible as anything. The West Limo connection was simply the way in which her world collided with that of Luke Carlton. Luke then became the connection to the gang, the drugs, and the murder for hire. Hell, maybe the conversation T.J. had with his dad was about his mother’s affair.
He shut his laptop, padded to the kitchen, poured two fingers of scotch, and let the liquor scorch a path down his throat. He set the glass on the counter and headed for the shower.
Time to put aside the clues that remained cloudy. He had a trip to take to New York, a woman to focus his energy on, and business to attend to.
As the water beat down on him, he bent his head under the spray, letting the heat soothe his sore muscles. He closed his eyes, and soon enough the questions stopped chasing each other. They circled the drain, and he imagined letting go of them until he could talk to the man who might have the answers. As the shower steamed up, his thoughts returned to that afternoon with Annalise.
Sinful Love (Sinful Nights #4) Page 9