by J. P. Bowie
“Anyway,” Simmons was saying, “Are you in the market for a house?”
Nick chuckled. Once a salesman, always a salesman. “I could be,” he said. “Right now, my partner and I are renting an apartment.”
“Well, when you’re ready, why don’t you give me a call?”
“I might just do that.” Before he hung up, Nick warned Simmons that he’d better go check out his listing before showing it again. “Looks like whoever was there did some damage.”
Talking with the realtor made Nick ponder something he’d not given a lot of thought to for some years. Martin had made Nick his sole beneficiary in the will he’d left. That meant the townhouse Martin had owned outright, and some investments he’d made over the years, had all passed to Nick. He had barely acknowledged the financial statements that were sent to him every quarter, simply giving them to an accountant at tax time. He had a hard time regarding the assets as his money. In his mind, he hadn’t earned it—Martin had. If anyone had asked just what was in that investment account, he would have had a hard time coming up with the answer.
But now, was this the time when he should buy a home for Eric and himself? They both felt pretty settled in Laguna and he did have enough for a sizeable down payment.
“Hmm…” Well, it was something to discuss later with Eric. Next on his list—Tom Carradine. Nick drew a deep breath as he punched in Tom’s number. He wanted to find out how Garcia had known Eric worked in this particular gallery. If it had been Tom who gave him that information, well, Nick wanted to know why. The answer to that was going to have to wait, however, as there was no reply and no pickup on the answering machine. Nick looked at the third name on the list. Louis McKenna. He was somewhat surprised McKenna hadn’t called him by now. Even on a Sunday he felt that the OC detective would have contacted the FBI with the information he had—surely California cops weren’t that laid back.
“Hey, Fallon…” McKenna sounded very laid back as he answered Nick’s call. Nick had a vision of him lying in his backyard on this warm October day, lapping up the sun’s warm rays.
“Thought I’d touch base with you,” Nick said.
“Yeah, I was going to give you a call. There’ll be an FBI agent callin’ you tomorrow. Name of Agent Tomlinson.”
“Tomlinson. Okay.”
“I put a report out on your car, but so far, nothing.”
“Thanks, anyway. I have a rental my insurance pays for.”
“Good. Okay, I’ll be in touch.”
Nick looked up as Eric stuck his head round the corner. “How’s it going back here?”
“Fine.” Nick smiled at him. “What time do you close for lunch?”
“I don’t. Saturday and Sunday the gallery stays open all day. They’re our busiest days.”
“What? What kind of white slave labor is that?”
Eric grinned at him. “Well, Peter’s usually here with me, so we take turns eating back here.”
“Jeez. Okay, I’ll go get us a sandwich. Any preference?”
“No, just whatever you’re having—and a hot tea.”
As Nick sat in the deli waiting for their sandwiches to be made, his cell phone rang. “Nick Fallon.”
“Nick, it’s Norman.”
“Hey, Doc, what’s up?”
“You got a minute?”
“Sure.”
“I—I’ve been feeling a little guilty about laying all that angst on you when you were here. I’m sorry I was such a pain.”
“You weren’t being a pain, Doc. As a matter of fact, I was kinda flattered you felt you could open up to me like that. That’s what friends are for, right?”
“Yeah, but you’ve got enough on your plate right now. You didn’t need me emoting all over the place. Anyway, I wanted to call and tell you I really am happy for you—finding someone you’re compatible with, I mean.”
Nick smiled. “I think it’s even more than that, to be honest. We’ve been through some hairy shit in the last couple of days and if anything, it’s just made it better. How are things with you?”
“Okay. I’ve decided to stay put, for a while anyway. I had a date a couple of nights ago, and it was really nice. It kind of restored my faith in my fellow man, which is kinda corny, I know, but I’m seeing him again tonight, and I’m really looking forward to that.”
“That’s terrific, Doc,” Nick enthused.
“Yeah. Anyway, it was really great seeing you last week, Nick. I only wish that…”
“Doc—Norman,” Nick said, keeping his voice low and gentle. “You know, you were a great help to me when everything was going wrong in my life. I’ll never forget that, and I’ll always be grateful for your support and encouragement. But now you need to move on. When I was still grieving for Martin, someone said to me, ‘Live for today, look forward to tomorrow, never look back with regret.’ I never thought that it would be possible for me to do that, but it’s happened. Now you’ve met someone nice—nice enough for you to want to see him again. So I’m saying to you, look forward to that, and build on it.”
There was silence on the line for a moment, then Nick heard a quiet chuckle on the other end. “Nick, maybe you should give up being a PI, and take up counseling. You’re a natural.” They laughed together, then Norman asked, “So Garcia’s disappeared. D’you think he got out of the country?”
“No, I know he’s still here.” He told Norman briefly of what had happened, downplaying the real danger that he and Eric had faced. “Where he is right now, I don’t know. The FBI will be talking to me tomorrow, I guess. He’s got my car, but he’s probably dumped that somewhere by now.”
“He must be feeling pretty desperate.”
“Garcia’s a man filled with rage and the need for vengeance,” Nick said. “He’s become tunnel-visioned in a way, and that could lead to him making mistakes. That’s what I’m hoping, anyway.” He stood and collected his bag of sandwiches that were now ready. “I’m heading back to the gallery now.”
“Is that where Eric works?”
“Uh huh. I didn’t feel great about him being there on his own after what happened yesterday, so I’m riding shotgun, you might say.”
“Nick, you guys be careful. Let the police handle this.”
“Don’t worry, I will. And Norman, keep in touch, won’t you?”
“You bet. Bye, Nick.”
The gallery was fairly quiet when Nick returned, so he suggested Eric eat first, while he kept an eye on things. “If anyone asks stuff I can’t answer, I’ll come get you,” he said, shooing Eric into the back room. His cell phone rang almost as soon as Eric sat down to eat. He glanced at the ID screen. It read, D. Villiers. Frowning, he retreated to the desk in the corner of the gallery before answering.
“Nick Fallon.”
“Hey Nick, it’s Danny Villiers in Pittsburgh.”
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Didn’t you and Andy used to use a guy named Tom Carradine for information and such?”
“Yeah…”
“That’s what I thought. Anyway, he’s turned up dead.”
“What?”
“Yeah. Pete Sorensen—I don’t think you know him. Anyway, he’s been using Carradine on a case he was working on, and they had arranged to meet a few days ago. Anyway, Carradine didn’t show and didn’t get in touch later. Pete called him and called him then went over to his apartment, just today. Found him with his throat cut and pretty beaten up. He must have been dead for some time, days by the look of it.”
“Shit,” Nick muttered. “That’s how Garcia got to us.”
“You think Garcia had something to do with it?”
“I think he had everything to do with it, Danny. He’s here in California, and he knew just how to get to me. He must’ve gotten it out of Tom. Damn…”
“You said he got to you. Are you OK?”
“Yeah, but he got away, Danny. I got the Orange County police involved—and the FBI. Sooner or later we’re gonna catch the son-of-a-bitch.”
“I’ll let Fitzpatrick know what’s going on,” Villiers said. “Nick, you be careful.”
“That’s my intention,” Nick replied wryly. He sat at the desk for a moment, staring at the landscape painting they had retrieved from the house on Mystic Hills. Once again, thinking of Tom Carradine’s fate, he could only be grateful that he and Eric had managed to survive their encounter with Garcia. He looked across the gallery to where Eric stood, having given up his lunch break to talk with a young couple seemingly interested in one of the paintings. As he watched his lover gesture toward the painting and speak with an assurance that Nick could still marvel at, he felt the cold hand of apprehension clutch at his heart, and for a moment he felt physically sick. In Nick’s mind, Tom Carradine’s death was a clear warning that he would never really be able to drop his guard, until the day he knew Garcia was dead.
Chapter Twelve
Monday mornings come all too soon, Nick groused, pushing himself from the warm and comfortable shelter of the bed he shared with Eric. He wanted to get an early start at the office and follow up on the news Danny Villiers had given him. Maybe Fitzpatrick had more information by now. After he’d showered, he stepped from the bathroom, trying to make as little noise as possible. Eric had Mondays off, and Nick wanted to let him sleep. Nevertheless, as he slipped on a pair of white briefs, he was aware of two light blue eyes watching his every move.
“Mornin’ sexy…” Eric’s sleepy voice caused him to smile.
“Mornin’ yourself.” Sitting on the bed, he brushed Eric’s lips lightly with his. “You sleep all right?”
“Mmm.” Eric gave him a sly smile. “After some guy finally left me alone. God, but he was insatiable.”
Nick chuckled. “Gee, wonder who that could’ve been?” He kissed the tip of Eric’s nose. “I’m going to get an early start at the office. Go back to sleep. Call me when you’re up and about.”
Eric wrapped his arms around Nick’s neck and pulled him close to his warm body. “Okay,” he whispered, closing his eyes but not letting Nick go. Nick smiled as he extricated himself, somewhat reluctantly, from Eric’s embrace.
After he had pulled on a pair of khaki slacks and a clean white cotton shirt, he strapped his shoulder holster in place and covered it with a lightweight bomber jacket. He picked up the keys to his rental car and the house key Eric had secreted under the plant pot outside. Taking care to double lock the apartment door, he ran down the steps to where he had parked the rented Lexus. Glancing at his watch, he noted that he would be at the office before Monica arrived at eight. Good, he thought, gives me time to make some calls without her knowing anything.
However, the best laid plans. When Nick pulled into his assigned parking space, a black sedan was sitting in one of the guest spaces, and two men in black suits were leaning on the car hood. Nick glowered at the men. FBI, he thought sourly. Shit. He had wanted to get his own stuff out of the way before having to deal with FBI agents.
“Nick Fallon?” One of the men approached him as he got out of his car. “Agent Tomlinson, FBI.”
“You’re on the job early,” Nick remarked, not quite hiding his irritation.
“You got somewhere to go?”
“I have a business to run,” Nick replied. “So, if you don’t mind, let’s get inside and get this over with.” He walked past Tomlinson and unlocked the office doors. The two men followed him into the reception area and looked about appraisingly as Nick switched on the lights.
“Nice place,” Tomlinson said. “Business must be good. This is Agent Johnson,” he added, indicating the other man.
Nick nodded, surveying the two men carefully. Both of them were young, early thirties at the most. Both looked to be in good shape. Johnson, taller than his partner, looked like a runner. Tomlinson was broader in the chest and it was obvious he worked out religiously. They looked like they could take care of themselves, Nick thought, but there was an air of arrogance about Tomlinson that boded trouble for them, should they ever come face-to-face with Garcia. Nick opened his office door and beckoned the men in. He wondered how Monica would react on finding two FBI agents seated in his office. He would have to ask her not to tell Jeff, if he should call to check up on them. He knew she’d hate having to keep things from Jeff. Monica had been with Jeff ever since he’d first hung up his shingle, and she was fiercely loyal to him. Nick was a relative newbie, and although they got along fine, Nick knew where her loyalties lay.
Agent Tomlinson dropped his beefy body into a leather chair opposite Nick. “Seems you had a run-in with Francisco Garcia. Want to tell us about that?”
“What’s this guy’s interest in you anyway?” Johnson asked, setting up his laptop on Nick’s desk.
Nick sighed. “Don’t they fill you guys in on anything anymore? My connection with Garcia is on record.”
Tomlinson nodded. “Right, but we just wanted to hear it again, in case we missed something.” He looked at his partner and smirked. “Wouldn’t want that now, would we?”
Fighting down the urge to throw both agents out of his office, Nick said, “So what do you want to hear first? What happened Saturday night, or what happened four years ago?”
“Let’s start with the raid in Pittsburgh.”
§ § § §
Garcia paced about the Torres’ living room with mounting impatience. He hated this confinement, this inability to move freely about. It was almost as bad as being in prison. He had spent a restless night, cursing himself for letting Fallon and his friend get the better of him. He still could not quite believe it had happened. He had underestimated Fallon, and now he had to rely on others to help him carry out what he had flown three thousand miles to accomplish. Then there was the matter of Fallon’s disclosure about Joseph’s sexual dalliance with a police officer.
Dios. He could not, would not believe it! But the thought that his beloved son might have been gay had rankled in his mind, and kept him awake into the small hours of the morning. Joseph—could it perhaps have been true? Sometimes when he had looked at his son, at the fine noble features he had inherited from his grandmother, he had wished for him to be less beautiful and more like his brother.
Alfredo was handsome, but masculine. There was nothing of the effeminate in him. Whereas, dare he think it? Dare he even contemplate that in Joseph there may have been a flaw that had led him to a life of depravity? God forbid that such a thing could have happened. Fallon must have been lying. Lying, in order to torture him as a form of retaliation for the situation he and his puta had found themselves in. Yes, that was it, Garcia mused. Fallon had thought he had found a way to wound me by defiling Joseph’s memory. There was no truth in what he said—
“Good morning, Francisco.” Angelina, looking provocatively beautiful as always, stood in the doorway, her lovely face wearing just a trace of mockery as she smiled at him.
As she walked slowly toward him, Garcia licked his lips in appreciation of the intense sexuality the woman exuded. God forgive me, but I would love to fuck her, he thought. Never mind that he was a guest in her husband’s home, he wanted to pull her into his arms and crush her body to his own.
Sensing this, Angelina’s smile widened and she looked up at Garcia from under seductively lowered eyelids. “Francisco…” Her voice was almost a purr. “You slept well, I hope.”
“No. My mind is too full to sleep.” Garcia’s voice sounded thick even to his own ears.
Angelina laid a hand on his arm. “Soon, all that bothers you will be taken care of,” she whispered. “Then you will be free to go where you will—and take with you whom you desire.”
Garcia smiled thinly, the implication not lost on him. So, Angelina was willing to leave her husband and the good life she’d said they enjoyed here. How like a woman, he thought bitterly, always so ready to betray those who were no longer of use. Poor Mario. Poor, stupid, stupid Mario. Still, this could be of great value. Angelina might very well be of greater service than Mario ever could. After she had served her purpose�
� Well then, he would see.
“I remembered where I had heard the name Nick Fallon,” Angelina said, handing him a magazine. “See, here.” She pointed to a photo spread. “Is that not the man?”
“It is,” Garcia said with a sneer as he peered at the photograph of Nick and a man he did not know.
“Who is the other?”
“His partner, Jeff Stevens. They run a detective agency in Laguna Beach.”