“Probably exactly what you’d imagine,” Drake answered, “although there are no lava lamps.”
“I’m glad we’re not making cheese enchiladas,” Dorothy said to Val, “because I have no idea how to make them. Bought the ingredients for my bowling league’s Mexican fiesta potluck, but at the last minute, brought chips and salsa instead.” She gave a halfhearted shrug. “Sometimes I’m not in the mood to cook alone.”
“I know how that feels.” Val paused. “Don’t know what else you’ve planned for dinner, but if you’ve got some lettuce and, as we call ‘em in New Orleans, some vedgetibbles, I can dress up a salad.”
Dorothy’s face brightened. “Yes, I have some lettuce and vedgetibbles.” She gestured at the shaker. “Is there enough in there for a third martini?”
“Let me do the honors,” Drake said. “I’d join you but I’m driving, and one beer is my limit.”
As he retrieved another martini glass from Grams’s cabinet, his mom asked, “A beer man would drink a martini?”
He set the glass on the table, poured some gin and vermouth into the container. “Not right now, but maybe sometime,” he said, securing the lid. “I’ve decided to branch out.”
With a grin, he gave the canister a hearty shake.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A LITTLE AFTER eight that night, Drake and Val left his mom’s. Before driving off, Drake checked the tracking app on his phone, which flashed an error message that it was unable to locate the GPS device in Marta’s car. He explained to Val that the car was likely parked in a garage, which blocked the satellite signals.
Fifteen minutes later, Drake drove the Honda down West Charleston Boulevard. Val sat in the passenger seat, bobbing her head along to Lady Gaga’s song “Poker Face,” which was playing on the radio.
“At my last job, I was thinking about lipping this song. I think I coulda pulled off one hot ya-ya Lady Gaga.” She caught Drake’s perplexed look. “I was a celebrity dealer at the Shamrock.”
“The Shamrock,” he mused. “That place is a Vegas classic. Haven’t been there in years.”
After several martinis, she felt a buzz. And less inhibited to ask point-blank, “You were a gambling addict?”
“Am a gambling addict. I’m in recovery.”
She reached over and turned off the radio. Listening to a song about poker and talking about gambling addiction felt hypocritical.
“This money you borrowed from Yuri,” she asked, “was it to pay off a gambling debt?”
“Yes.”
She strung the pieces of the story together. “Is that why he has your family’s ring? As a payment?”
“Yes.”
“Must be a very nice ring.”
“Five marriages going back to 1854. Grams knows all the stories. One is called the Breckenridge Diamond, named after the Colorado mountain town that my great-great-grandmother and her husband helped found. During the winters, they cross-country skied everywhere. Not long after her husband died, she found an ailing owl on a skiing trip and nursed it back to health. It stayed with her after that. When she died, it was always seen near her gravesite. Family legend claims it was her husband, who promised he’d never leave her side.”
“What a touching story. And how horrible that Yuri has it. He’ll never know its significance.”
He was quiet for a moment. “I would never have given him that ring. Just learned a few weeks ago that my father gave it to him as partial payment, twenty grand, for my debt. After I paid that back to Mom, she handed it all to me in a savings account, which had been Dad’s wish. When I heard about the ring, I offered the cash to Yuri. He wouldn’t give up the ring. Instead, he jacked up the price to thirty, refused a penny less.”
“Jerk.”
“Yeah, they broke the mold with him.” He took a right at South Jones Boulevard.
“Where are we going?”
“Wanted to drive by my old place—it’s not far out of the way. Since I’m meeting the arson investigator on Monday, I want to get an idea of the damage before the monsoons hit.”
“Think they’re coming that soon?” Craning her neck, she checked out the rear window. “Looks like those clouds are staying in the mountains.”
“Looks can be deceiving.”
She studied his profile. So strong, so hard. Not a flicker of what he was feeling inside. One thing she’d noticed tonight was how his mother and grandmother, for all their independence and strength, relied on him. Yet he didn’t seem to rely on anyone else.
“Can you go inside your house?”
“No. It’s still a crime scene. Tony might have an idea when I can get back inside, but…”
“What?”
He shrugged. “Hearsay survived, that’s all that really matters. Most everything else is replaceable. I’ve only really missed two things. Connelly’s book The Lincoln Lawyer—was halfway through reading it—and my dad’s old suits. At least I still got the one I was wearing that night. Jacket’s a bit of a mess, but it can be cleaned.”
So that retro suit she’d seen him wearing that night had been his dad’s. It fit him so well, Val guessed he’d had it altered. She loved vintage clothes, but she had no idea who had owned them before. But to wear something of a loved one’s was, in a sense, like an embrace. A quiet, tangible way to remain close.
Drake might keep a tough exterior about life, but his feelings ran deep. Indeed, looks could be deceiving.
“You lost everything in fire,” she murmured, “me, in water.” She remembered something. “Nanny once told me about some ancient goddess of fire and water. In winter, she’s the fire that cracks the ice and brings the frozen world alive again.”
She tapped her fingers on the armrest, thinking how, in an oddly similar way, a fire—Grams’s warmth—had cracked the ice of Val’s long-suppressed shame of leaving her nanny on the roof. She felt some relief from her admission, but it would take time to completely release all the guilt and shame. Just as it took time for a frozen world to come fully alive again.
She didn’t know if she’d feel any better admitting this next thing to Drake, but she needed to talk about it.
“I lied to Nanny,” she said softly.
He glanced at her, his brow furrowed. “Val, it’s been a long night. Maybe this isn’t the time.”
She almost smiled. There’d been a lot of venting and confessing and forgiving going on this evening—probably enough to last a lifetime for a man who didn’t like to discuss feelings.
“It’s long past time, actually. I made a promise to Nanny to find my biological mother, who left me when I was two. I broke my promise. I haven’t done even one Google search.”
After a pause, he said, “Maybe you were late acting on your promise, but you didn’t break it.” His voice gentled. “I’ll help you find your mother.”
“I wasn’t telling you to reel you in—”
“I know. You’re helping me with my case, so let me help you with yours. Anyway, keeping promises makes people whole.”
She looked out the window at the stream of flashy signs, half-empty parking lots and seedy strip malls. Maybe she’d feel whole, too, after fulfilling the promise to Nanny, but she doubted that finding the mother who’d abandoned her would make her feel much of anything except angry. Granted, she’d given Val life, but a few years later she hadn’t cared if her baby daughter lived or died. What was the meaning in finding someone like that?
“After you get home tonight,” Drake continued, “send me a message with whatever information you know about your birth mother. Which reminds me—I’d like to see that interview you did with Marta right away. Can you attach it to a text message?”
She tugged her phone out of her purse, glad to be concentrating on something else.
“I’ve been thinking about that arson investigator. He probably has access to all kinds of government databases unavailable to private investigators. Maybe he can help you dig up some of that dirt on Yuri.”
“True. But I’m not
telling him about Yuri.”
“Wait, I’m finishing sending my interview with Marta…okay, done.” She dropped her phone into her purse. “Why not?”
“One phone call or door knock from a government investigator will send Yuri underground.”
She thought about what Drake had said earlier. “So that’s what you meant when you said things could backfire if you gave too much information, too soon, to Tony.”
He nodded.
“Like a game of chess. You want to help Tony, eventually, but he can’t move too fast because you want to blackmail Yuri by showing him evidence you’ve found that he committed the arson—”
“Or some other criminal act—”
“Which forces Yuri to sell the ring to you at twenty thousand.”
“You got it.” He shot her an interested look. “You play chess?”
“Nanny tried to teach me. After a few lessons we agreed we’d both live much happier lives if she played chess with her friends and I took piano lessons.”
He half choked a laugh. “I can only imagine how that conversation played out.” He reflected for a moment. “I know you’ll never let me hear the end of this, but I’ve been thinking how something else might play out. Taking that Riviera case isn’t such a bad idea.”
She did a double take. “Well, paint me green and call me a cucumber!”
“It’s decent money. Established client. And it gives me time to work the kinks out of my life. But this isn’t a ghost chase, it’s about collecting evidence through established means such as taking video and setting up motion detectors.”
“Which is how Miss Doyle views it, too.”
“I wonder about that.” He turned on South Myrtle Avenue. “My house is up here. By the way, I’ll text you Yuri’s name and a link later tonight. Want you to check out what he looks like.”
“F’sure,” she murmured as they approached the house.
The streetlights cast a surreal light on the gutted, burned building. Drake pulled over to the far side of the road and stopped but kept the engine running. He rolled down his window and looked at it.
The silence was eerie, broken only by a dog barking in the distance. The stench of smoke permeated the air. Yellow crime tape and no-trespassing signs circled the charred remains.
The devastation wakened memories of New Orleans in Val. The emptiness. The hope against hope that something had survived. “Do you want to get out and look around?”
“What’s the point? Total loss.”
“I’m sorry,” she said softly.
He rolled up his window, then turned to her and gently put his hand under her chin, tilting her face so he could see it better.
“Fire and water,” he murmured.
* * *
AFTER LEAVING DRAKE’S old house, they listened to a local soft rock station on the radio. Five songs later, Drake parked in front of Val’s house and killed the engine.
“I’m going back to the office, pick up Hearsay. In the morning, Li’l Bit will follow me over in his car, and I’ll park yours out in front. Plan to put some time in at the office after that.”
“Li’l Bit. Funny name.”
“Met him when I subcontracted a process service, but our friendship took off after I helped him out of a jam.”
There weren’t as many lights on this street, making it darker inside the car. She sensed something in the air—a tension, an expectancy—and wished she could see the look in his eyes. He might be a master at hiding his emotions, but those gray eyes signaled more than he realized.
“Thanks again for inviting me to your family’s for dinner.”
He chuckled under his breath. “Next time, it’ll be a family get-together, not a group therapy session.”
She caught his familiar, masculine scent, felt a tingling in the pit of her stomach. The air seemed to thrum with their connection, their energy.
Across the street, the neighbor’s porch light went on. A group of people, laughing and talking, exited the front door. A small black dog, tail wagging, scampered outside with them, barking.
The image of Drake’s home, reduced to scorched rubble, rose in her mind. Seeing the horrifying destruction firsthand, knowing how recently it had occurred, jarred her.
Here he sat, looking so calm, so controlled…but she didn’t buy the facade. She had experienced such devastation and loss, knew how emotions—exhaustion, anger, confusion—bombarded a person those first days after the trauma. She remembered a social worker walking through the Superdome, asking people what they needed, offering coping tips. Although dazed and frightened, Val had forced herself to memorize three tips that became her mantra over the following days and weeks. Even now, eight years later, she could repeat them in her sleep.
Identify concrete needs.
Don’t make important decisions.
Find ways to alleviate stress.
The best thing she could do for Drake right now was help him cope. As much as she’d prefer to go for the gusto, it did a disservice to him, her, too, to behave like some P.I. intern with more hormones than sense. She needed to be his friend and work associate. If they were meant to be more, that would come in time. But not right now.
She put her hand on the door handle. “Need anything else for Monday’s interview with Tony?”
“No.”
Was there disappointment in his voice?
“Whenever you get the rental car back here is fine. Anytime Sunday works, I don’t have plans.” She opened the door.
“Val, wait.”
She paused, looking back at his shadowy face.
“Want to…do something tomorrow night?”
“Rain check?”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No,” she said softly.
He blew out a breath. She could feel his withdrawal. Probably had that look of puzzlement on his face. The one that made him look shy and sweet, although based on the way his massive, shadowy form hunched over the steering wheel, more like one of those churlish gargoyles on a French Quarter balcony. Shy and sweet didn’t peg his mood at the moment.
This wasn’t going well. She needed to explain.
“You need to identify your concrete needs, not make important decisions, alleviate stress.”
He snorted with disbelief. “Are you a shrink all of a sudden?”
“No,” she said, forcing herself to sound calm, together. “I’m your friend.”
He started the car and revved the engine like a race car driver at the start line. “Get out and close the door.”
His words stung. “I didn’t explain that well. What I meant was—”
“Val, enough.”
“I need to get my purse.” She grabbed it, then paused. With her other hand, she reached out, offering peacemaking fingertips. “You’re going through a difficult—”
He snarled something about crazy who dats and she jumped back, shoving the door shut with a slam.
Standing on the sidewalk, she watched the plumes of smoke from his burning-rubber peel out as he erratically drove her rental Honda down the street. It truly was disheartening when people didn’t aspire to be mannerly and communicative, even in times of stress.
Across the street, the neighbors stood still, nobody laughing or talking, staring silently at her. Even the dog had stopped barking.
She plastered a smile on her face and waved. “G’night, y’all!”
Shivering, she walked to the front door, rubbing her arms as though it was chilly out, knowing it had nothing to do with the weather but the absence of the physical and emotional warmth she had desired. Yes, desired. Sensations pounded and raged within her, but she had made a choice to do the right thing and put his well-being ahead of her hot, sticky, primal needs.
But damn, he had asked her out.
These past eight years, Val had dated off and on, but she eventually found fault with the guy and ended things. Or she acted like a jerk and to her relief, he ended things. Could it be that until she absolved herself
for abandoning Nanny, she wouldn’t allow herself to risk a deep attachment with anyone else? Especially risk falling in love, because that meant opening herself to feeling wanted and good and safe?
The realization surprised her. How could she—a woman who could work and fight so hard for a career—also stand in the way of her own personal happiness? It just seemed plain dumb, and yet that’s what she had done.
So now what? Call him up and say, “Hey, I know I said no, but how about yes instead?” Considering the way he’d left skid marks on the street tonight, she seriously doubted the man would be receptive to her changing her mind, if he even picked up the call after seeing her caller ID.
Feeling glum, she stepped onto the porch and halted. Opening her purse, she angled it under the porch light. What a mess. Honestly, bag ladies carried around less stuff then she did.
She pawed through the clutter for the house key, mentally flogging herself for cluttering up her relationship with Drake, too.
Just as she found her keys, the front door clicked open.
Jaz stood there, wearing a trench coat, her face slathered with makeup.
“Hey, bay-bee!” She swept back a curl of her raven hair. “I was just on my way out.”
Val glanced at her cousin’s black seamed stockings and leopard-print stilettos with pointy toes. “Where you fixin’ to go?”
“Have an interview with a club manager at ten. He’s looking for burlesque dancers.”
“You’re wearing your burlesque outfit under that coat?”
Jaz flipped it open. “Whattya think?”
Val checked out her barely legal cousin’s breasts, damn near spilling out of a leopard corset trimmed in red satin with a black tulle skirt that barely covered her whoozit.
“You look like a hooker.”
Jaz vigorously closed her coat. “I cannot believe,” she muttered indignantly, cinching the belt, “that you just called me that.”
“Well, if it looks like a duck…”
With a haughty toss of her neonoir head, she gave Val a withering drop-dead look.
“Don’t be so juvenile,” Val muttered, staring into her cousin’s eyes, determined to not be the first to blink. “Going on an interview dressed like that, at ten o’clock at night, in Las Vegas, is asking for trouble.”
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