by Mark Stone
I found a pair of men standing on either side of the arched doorway as I made my way up the steps of the old church. One look at them told me they were security, and struck me as both odd and pretentious. My father might have been a celebrity in this town, but he was hardly someone who needed guards blocking off the entrance to his services.
I realized quickly that they weren’t here for him. They were here for me, to keep me out. Peter really was a son of a bitch.
“Name,” one of the guards, a tall man with a buzz cut and sunglasses said as I settled in front of the doorway.
“I’d tell you, but I don’t think you’d approve,” I answered, an almost misplaced grin spreading across my face as they leered at me. There was something oddly satisfying about screwing with these guys, about making them work.
“If you’re not on the list—”
“Let me make an educated guess,” I said, cutting the guard off mid sentence. “If I’m not on that list, then I can walk right in. Because that list has exactly one name on it.” I shook my head. “The same you’ll find on my driver’s license.”
The guard huffed, but not in a surprised manner. This obviously wasn’t his first rodeo and I had little doubt Peter told him I’d drop by. If my half brother was responsible for the arson that reduced my past to embers, he’d have to know that I’d either come looking for clues or revenge.
“You have two choices, Mr. Storm,” the guard said, taking a step forward. It was a classic move, one to show dominance and eagerness to be aggressive. I didn’t take to either of those things, and neither scared me. I stood my ground. “You can either walk out of here, or I can walk you out.”
Anger coursed through me and my body tightened.
“How much is Peter Storm paying you?” I asked, looking the taller man square in the sunglasses.
“More than you can afford,” he answered flatly, which was probably true, but completely beside the point.
“You misunderstand me,” I answered. “I’m not trying to hire you. I’d just like to know if my brother is compensating you well enough to pay for the medical bills you’re about to pile up.”
A low almost growl came from the guards throat. I watched as his large shoulders lowered and his hands tightened into fists at his sides. He was big man, bigger than me for sure. That didn’t mean a damned thing though. I had dealt with big men before, up in Chicago. They all cried like babies when they hit the ground, and then again when I threw the cuffs on them. He would be no different.
“That’s enough,” A female voice said from behind me. “You can stand down. He’s coming with me.”
Hesitantly, I turned to see a woman in a long, but tight black dress moving up the steps. Her face was bright, but free of makeup and a wide brimmed hat blocked most of the sun from touching her pale, delicate features.
She looked to be around forty, but well kept. She’d definitely fit in with the upper crust mourners who had no doubt already piled inside, glancing at Rolex watches and wondering when this thing would start.
I blinked at her, searching my memories and trying to see if she was in any of them. I came up dry.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, ma’am,” the tall guard said, pushing his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose so he could see her more clearly.
“You wouldn’t call me ma’am if you knew who I was,” she answered. As she rested next to me, the scent of her filled my nostrils. It was floral and strong, deep in the richest sort of way. “You’d call me Mrs. Storm.”
My heart took a leap and I looked over at her again. Who was she and what did she have to do with my father’s side of the family?
“I-I’m afraid I—”
“You’ll be more afraid if you don’t stand down right this instant,” she answered, cutting the guard off. “My name is Angela Storm, and my husband is about to be consecrated in that very building. Now, I’m not going in without this man. So, unless you look forward to telling your bosses as well as the throngs of reporters I’ll have out here in mere minutes why you refused to let a grieving widow into the church where her husband’s funeral was being held, I suggest you step aside and let us pass.”
I turned to her, at once bemused and horribly impressed.
She looked over at me, her brown eyes taking me in. “You have your father’s features,” she muttered. She obviously knew who I was.
I didn’t answer. This woman was my father’s wife, a trophy unquestionably given what had to be a thirty-year age difference between the two, but a formidable woman, and one who wanted me inside. I wasn’t sure why, but it didn’t matter. I had a job to do, and she was going to help me do it.
“Gary,” the tall guard said, motioning to his friend with a tightened jaw. “I think we’re due a smoke break right about now. Don’t you?”
“That’s a smart boy,” Angela said almost mockingly as she took my hand and watched the men step away from the entrance.
A shock ran through me as she squeezed my hand, almost desperately.
I looked over at her, and she nodded for us to continue.
“You’re very late,” I told her as we pushed through the first set of doors and on toward the second, which would lead us into the chapel area.
“As are you,” she replied.
“I’m not wanted,” I answered, as thought hat would explain things.
“Oh, Dillon,” she sighed. “None of us are. This room is filled with vipers, and I’m not looking forward to spending even one more minute with them than I have to.”
“So why bring me in?” I asked, looking her up and down and trying to figure out her angle.
“Because I can,” she answered. “And because everyone here thinks you’re a pathetic bastard. They also think I’m a lying whore. I figured our kind should stick together.”
Something about the way she spoke struck me as familiar. This woman knew how these people thought and didn’t condone it. A smile started to creep across my face, but I held it down. This was a funeral, after all.
“So you just want to screw with them then?” I asked as we neared the second set of doors.
“Is that a problem?” she asked and, in her eyes, I saw a defiance I might be able to use to my advantage. A chink in the Storm armor.
“Not at all, ma’am,” I answered. “Not at all.”
11
I felt more than a little out of place in my oversized hand-me-down suit with a gun on my hip as Angela paraded me around in front of the buttoned up mourners in the chapel.
The room was completely full, so much so that people were actually lining the back wall, standing because there was no room left to sit.
The only pew with any availability whatsoever was up at the front and reserved for family. I shouldn’t have been surprised when Angela walked over to it, still arm in arm with me. She was, after all, the widow and chief among the family here.
My heart rose up into my chest as I heard the murmurs and mumbling of people as they realized who I was and who I was with. I caught site of Peter as I sat down, a mere half a pew separating us. I thought the look on his face would bring me some joy. I thought these people seeing me here and showing them that I didn’t care about what they thought would make me feel better.
It didn’t. I just felt out of place. I felt like an intruder in an alien world. Peter might have been horrible to me when we were growing up. Hell, he might have been horrible to me the last time we met a few days ago. He might have even been responsible for nearly killing my grandfather. He had just lost someone though. I thought about my mother’s funeral. I had gotten so angry when none of the Storms showed up for it, not even my good for nothing father. How would I have really felt if he had though?
The music started, solemn and slow, and the congregation stood as the priest made his way to the altar, incense pouring from a golden chalice in his hands.
This all felt wrong. I didn’t know my father, certainly not well enough to sit beside his widow in the front pew at his funeral.
There would be another way to get the information I needed. I couldn’t do this.
“Excuse me,” I whispered to Angela as the priest passed by, leaving the isle empty. I slid out into it and walked as fast as I could toward the door while trying not to draw too much attention to myself. Not that it mattered. Every eye I passed seemed trained on me, monitoring my every movement.
I pushed out the door and headed for the side exit. Better to dodge the security guards on my way out. I wasn’t afraid of them, but I had caused enough of a scene just by showing up here today. There was no need in exacerbating the situation.
I walked through the side exit and took a deep breath of fresh air as the sun hit me. I felt free out here, away from the “room full of vipers” as Angela had called it, away from my brother and my father’s body, away from all of it.
“That didn’t take long,” a voice said from beside me. My eyes flitted over to find a short, thin girl with curly blond hair, freckled skin, and a cigarette dangling between her lips. She batted blue eyes at me expectantly, as though I was supposed to respond to her observation. “I figured you’d at least have made it to the gospel after the way my mother practically twirled you around in there.”
“You’re Angela’s daughter,” I said, leaning against the wall alongside her and looking her up and down. She didn’t look much like her mother. The girl looked all of twenty-five, though she had the stance and demeanor of someone twice that. She had some road miles on her, this one.
“Guilty as charged,” she answered, pulled the cigarette pack from her jacket pocket and offered me one.
I waved it off. “Quit five years ago.”
Shaking her head, she replied, “You got some balls, you know.”
“Is that right?” I asked, staring at her. “What makes you say that?”
“You know that cocky bastard of a brother you’ve got didn’t want you here. Hell, he didn’t want me here either.” She took another draw and blew the smoke out in a ring that I watched expand and then disintegrate in the Florida air. “Couldn’t do anything about that, of course. But you; he went through hell and high water to make sure you didn’t get here. Those guards he hired, they’re former Seals, for Christ’s sake. And what does my mother do? She pulls you right past them like you’re freaking Charlie and she’s giving you a tour through the chocolate factory.” She laughed bitterly. “It’d almost be funny if it wasn’t so tragic.”
“Why?” I asked simply. This girl struck me as a familiar type. She was obviously bitter, and I’d known more than a few bitter girls in my time. Living so close to the richest people in the world and not getting to be among them wasn’t easy. It seemed, for this girl though, even being among them wasn’t easy.
“Why is it funny or why is it tragic?” she replied.
“Neither,” I responded. “You strike me as the kind of person who thinks rich people are funny because they’re ridiculous and tragic because they don’t realize it.”
“And you’re not?” she contested. “That type of person I mean. Seems to me like you should be after the way they treated you.”
“I’m a lot of things,” I answered, shrugging. “But my question was why he didn’t want you here.”
I leaned over, grabbed the cigarette, and brought it to my lips. This girl was as close to all of it as Angela, and she had the added bonus of me being able to talk to her in private right now. I needed her to trust me, and this was one way to start. I took a puff and let the smoke invade my lungs.
“I’m Dillon, by the way,” I said, exhaling.
“I know who you are obviously,” she answered, rolling her eyes. “I’m Lucy, and Peter didn’t want me here for the same reason he didn’t want you here, I guess.” She shook her head. “Peter thinks of the Storms as a picture perfect family, and I’m not exactly page one material.”
“You seem like you’d fit in well enough with those society types to me,” I answered, handing the cigarette back to her. “You certainly have that whole ‘blond detachment’ thing down pat.
“And here I thought you were a good detective,” she answered. “These people only care about image, and let’s just say that — after the last few years my mother is happy if nicotine is all I’m addicted to.”
I looked at the girl and thought about what Boomer had said about drugs being a real problem down here these days. At least she was clean now.
“Not that you’d know anything about that, would you?” she asked, a grin playing across her lips. “You’ve never smoked a day in your life, have you?”
I shook my head. She’d caught me. “Was it that obvious? Did I hold it the wrong way or something?”
“You held it just fine,” she answered. “it’s when you brought it up to your mouth.” She shook her head and looked at the smoking thing wistfully. “You didn’t kiss it like you wanted it.”
“Tell me about a man in a sky blue car with a scar going through his right eyebrow,” I said, figuring that, since my little cigarette play didn’t work, I had gotten as much trust from her as I was likely to. Might as well get to the questioning now. “He’d know Spanish and have a reason to be angry with Peter.” Lucy’s eyes narrowed as she considered this.
“Doesn’t sound like anybody I know,” she admitted. “Though there are a lot of people who might be angry with Peter. In case you haven’t noticed, he’s kind of an ass.” She looked up. “Though maybe you should ask him yourself.”
I turned, following her gaze, and saw Peter Storm standing behind me with both his guards flanked at either side. My stomach turned. This was getting out of hand, and I needed to fix it. Though, judging by the look on his face, I might already have been too late.
“You,” he said, his mouth clenched into a line of anger. “You and I need to talk.”
12
“You need to be inside Peter,” I said, trying to keep my voice level and my tone as polite as possible. I put my hands out in front of me, a sign that I meant no harm and wanted to keep this altercation as civil as possible. Judging by the angry scowl on Peter’s face though, that didn’t seem very likely. “Your father’s only going to get one funeral. You’ll hate yourself if you miss it.”
“Is that what you told yourself?” he asked, walking toward me with his guards on either side. “Is that the way you justified coming here after I asked you not to?”
“That was a mistake,” I admitted, sighing and looking to the guards. “I shouldn’t have come here. I did it for the wrong reasons. I should have let you have your time with him.”
The words felt strange as they rolled off my tongue. My father wasn’t actually here. He was dead and gone and, even if he hadn’t been, Peter had plenty of time with him. He’d had his entire life to know the man. It was me who didn’t.
Still, that didn’t matter now. I’d come here to get to the bottom of things, to find a connection between Peter and the fire at my house, and the dead lawyer in the hotel. Maybe the man in the sky blue car would do that. If not, I certainly wasn’t getting anything from him in the condition he was in.
“You’re damned right it was a mistake!” he answered loudly. “I’d love to know who the hell you think you are.”
“He’s his son, Peter,” Lucy answered from beside me. “Just because he didn’t grow up with a silver spoon sticking out of his ass doesn’t mean he doesn’t belong here. He has just as much right to come to this funeral as you do.”
I turned, motioning for Lucy to shut her mouth. There was some legitimacy in what she was saying, but that wouldn’t help right now. It was too late though. Peter has already latched onto her words.
“Does he?” my brother asked. His words were directed to Lucy, but his eyes were trained on me, angry and wide. “Was he there to help my father build his company? Was he around when he started getting old and realized he couldn’t handle the responsibilities anymore? Did he help him through two divorces and an investigation by the IRS?” Peter breathed heavily, blinking before he continued. “Was he the
one who found him at the bottom of the stairs, clutching his chest and struggling for breath?” He shook his head hard. “I don’t think he was, Lucy. I don’t think he did any of those things, and neither did you. His mother got knocked up and yours got lucky. You think that makes either one of you family? You didn’t work for it. You didn’t sweat and bleed for it? You’re not real Storms. He’s a mistake and you’re the daughter of a gold digger. That’s all you’ll ever be.”
Anger pooled up inside of me, threatening to steal my composure. It took all I could do not to deck the son of a bitch right there.
“You need to go back inside, Peter,” I repeated, this time with much less compassion in my voice.
“Don’t tell me what I need to do,” he answered quickly. “You think anyone is even paying attention to that funeral now, Dillon? All they’re thinking about is the fact that my father’s bastard was escorted into his funeral by a woman who didn’t respect him enough not to make a spectacle of him.” He steadied his gaze on me, blinking back what might have been tears. “You ruined today, and now you’re going to pay for it.”
My eyes flickered to the guards. “Your men should know that I’m a detective. So laying hands on me is an automatic felony. They should also know that I’m not a pushover and that I’m more than capable of kicking both their asses at once.” They’d find that out soon enough though.
“You’re mistaken, Dillon,” Peter said, shrugging out of his black coat and handing it to the tall guard. “I didn’t bring them here for that. This has been building between you and I for a long time now.” He unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt and rolled the sleeves up to the elbows. “And now we’re going to finish it.”
Peter Storm looked exactly the way you’d think a pampered rich man who had never so much as swung an axe let alone thrown a punch might as he walked toward me. With slicked back hair and skinny arms, he charged me like he was actually going to do something.
I pulled out of the way as he neared me, his fist driving through the air where I’d been standing just seconds before. There were more than a few spots on himself that he’d left vulnerable in the movement. I could have slugged him in any one of them and ended this, but something was stopping me.