by R. J. Blain
I had my doubts the pictures would develop, but even if they did, I couldn’t yet bear to see the past I so often tried to escape. It would always be too soon.
Why had I survived?
Why hadn’t they?
Some days, I questioned who—and what—I’d become.
My father strolled into the living room and offered me a cup of coffee. “Your mother wanted to give you tea, but I thought you’d need a bigger punch to start the day.”
I accepted the mug and took a tentative sip. “Thanks, Dad.”
“You want to talk about it?’
“Can it be in overly loud voices most call yelling?”
My father chuckled and sat on the arm of his chair. “You weren’t exactly quiet when you blabbed to your boss that a ghost had passed through you to get to the other side. Your quad is horrified, and my cop is trying to figure out how to apologize for poking you with a stick.”
“It didn’t hurt or anything like that.”
“They heard the New York line, too.”
Well, shit. “I’ll go in there and bang their heads together until they relax if needed.”
“That’s a little better. Tell me about Elizabeth.”
Most days, my father and I bickered, but he always knew when something was important. I sighed, sipped my coffee, and told him everything, careful to keep my voice quiet. “She called me a sea full of stars.”
“It seems to me that you were her light in the darkness. When you go over the ancestry, your mother will help as much as she can. You’ll need to ask an expert if there’s any importance in her giving it to you. For a line as old as your mother thinks it likely is, it’s a treasure beyond measure.”
“I’ll find someone,” I promised. “But it’s sad.”
“What is?”
“I guess we’re like sisters. We were born on the same day.”
“And year?”
I nodded.
“Call her whatever makes you feel better. Come have breakfast, go bang heads together, and get back on your feet. I have to go to work in an hour, and your mother’s working on a property today. I’ve told her she needs to sell it yesterday because it’s going to eat a hole right through her wallet otherwise. Maybe you should ask your mother about some of her properties. She has too many of them.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my apartment.”
“Everything is wrong with it. It’s cramped, and you could use more space. A lot more space.”
I scowled. “I like living minimally.”
“Bullshit. You’re just a cheapskate who won’t invest in a proper home because you work too much.”
While I could trust my father to recognize what was truly important, I could also trust him to do his best to piss me off first thing in the morning. “Now you’re just being an ass, Dad.”
“That’s part of my job description. If I were being a real ass, I wouldn’t tell you that your mother got her hands on a Tudor style manor house. It may be a wattle and daub. Your mother will bleed our wallets dry if she keeps the damned thing, so I thought you might like to know you could play the real estate market for it if you really wanted. The property was a foreclosure, and knowing your mother, she’ll dump tens of thousands into the place if I don’t get it out of her hands. I told her she needed to sell it without fixing it up. I don’t think she’s going to listen to me. Anyway, your mother charmed the banker and got a good deal on the property.”
There was one way my parents could con me into moving out of my apartment, and it was presenting my dream house on a silver platter. “Tan daub and dark timber?”
“Yep.”
Damn it. In California, one cropped up every blue moon, and the price tag told one story: I’d never be able to afford it. “Too expensive.”
“It’s in Oakland.”
I’d looked for a house in Oakland once, and the multi-million dollar price tag had convinced me a house was beyond my reach. “Definitely too expensive.”
“It’s on a nice stony perch safe from mudslides with a nice valley view.”
My brows rose. “There are places like that for sale in Oakland?”
“Crocker Highlands.”
Shit. I doubled the estimated sales price to a five million minimum. “Definitely too expensive, Dad. I make decent money, but I don’t make that much money.”
“I’m sure your mother could give you a good deal on it.”
“Mom, tell Dad to stop trying to sell me your flip that I can’t afford.”
“Wattle and daub,” she shouted from kitchen. “I paid half a mil for it.”
“Who did you sleep with to get that deal?”
“Olivia!” my parents scolded.
“That’s a steal for Crocker Highlands. That’s slept with the entire bank sort of steal!”
My mother stomped into the living room carrying a plate of eggs, bacon, and sausage links, which she gave to me. “I’ll let you rent it if you’re nice to me.”
As my mother had taught my father a thing or two about trickery, I considered the ways she might take advantage of the situation. If she wanted me to have the house, she’d trick me into paying the mortgage and force the deed on me using the rent I’d paid as the payment amount. “You’re going to hoard the rent money and use it to make me buy the property.”
She smiled. “Yes, I will.”
“I demand to see the cleared title and full proof you have this wattle and daub house. I also require proof you didn’t sleep with any bankers to get that property for half a million.” To make my parents happy, I focused my attention on my breakfast, targeting the bacon first.
“I’ll email you with pictures and a copy of the paperwork. I paid the remaining mortgage value minus interest to the bank for the sale. I confirmed the legalities three times over, and I made certain all owed taxes were paid off.”
My mother would coerce me into doing what she wanted unless I provided a challenge she couldn’t easily conquer. The challenge I had in mind crossed a few professional lines, but I decided I didn’t care. “Con Detective Hunk into moving in as my food preparer. Only then will I consider it.”
“That’s going to be interesting.” With a smirk, my mother turned towards the kitchen. “Ray, dear? Could you come here for a moment?”
The detective walked into the living room wearing a worn t-shirt and jeans. Within five minutes, I’d need a cold shower. If I had to stare at him looking like he’d just tumbled out of bed, I’d be reduced to a drooling, single-celled organism.
“What can I do for you, Mrs. Abrams?”
“I see my mother has hooked her claws into you already. You poor, foolish man. You’re doomed.”
They ignored me, although I caught Detective Hunk glancing my way before giving my mother his full attention.
“If I told you that you could live rent free in Oakland, would you?”
“What’s the catch?”
“You’d have to live with Olivia and feed her at appropriate intervals. She’s helpless in the kitchen.”
He raised a brow. “Tough call on that one. Which neighborhood?”
While deserved, I glared at the man and made a mental note to plan my revenge later.
“Crocker Highlands.”
“When is the move-in date, and can I have a dog?”
The hunky cop was obviously a few cans short of a six pack. I needed to put some serious thought into deciding if his insanity was a problem. “You should be saying no, Raymond.”
“I pay three thousand a month in rent and live alone. No dogs allowed in my complex.”
Ouch. “I take that back. I’d consider moving in with me to save that much a month, too.”
“Exactly. Cooking for a psychopathic FBI agent in exchange for rent seems equivalent to me. Not really a bargain, but it’s doable.”
“Good to know,” I muttered. “For the record, I don’t like small dogs.”
“I’d want a retiring police dog if I get one. I didn’t qualify to be a handl
er.”
I could make a few guesses, but one seemed more likely than the others. “Didn’t qualify to work in the narcotics unit?”
“I lack the required ability rating.”
That seemed like an idiotic reason to keep a good cop from working, especially when most law enforcement incidents didn’t require an ability to handle at all. “Dad, get the damned man a work dog. He doesn’t have a partner.”
My father sighed. “If I don’t agree, you’re going to start telling me how to do my job, aren’t you?”
“How’d you guess, old man?”
“You were born a brat. I’ll talk to Oakland about it.”
If I took my eyes off him for a second, he’d push the task off, as it would require him to challenge the status quo. I cleared my throat and tapped my foot.
“I’ll talk to Chief Kirkland soon.”
I picked up my last piece of bacon, stuck it in my mouth, and chewed while watching my father’s every move. Only when he broke eye contact with me did I swallow and ask, “Soon as in today?”
“He doesn’t need a dog today.”
“He doesn’t have a partner,” I repeated. “If you won’t secure a dog for him, I’ll ask Eddy to transform and pretend she’s a dog until he’s given an animal and the training needed to handle it.”
“You woke up in a pissy mood. Does he even want a dog?”
“He obviously tried to get one. Since he’s defective and doesn’t work well with a human partner, give him a canine.”
“You shouldn’t even be worrying about this. You’re not a cop.”
“I’m so much better than a mere cop, Dad. But he’s probably not partnered because he’s a pure with a waiver to serve in law enforcement. It’s a safety issue. A good police dog will help protect him on his shifts.”
The detective chuckled. “I should be more offended over this conversation than I am, but if Special Agent Abrams wants to wage war on my behalf, I’m certainly not going to argue. That said, there’s always a shortage of dogs for the force, so it makes a great deal of sense my application was denied. I have a relatively low-risk job, and I join a pair for the more dangerous investigations.”
“Or you get saddled with my daughter.”
“It’s been an interesting experience so far, sir.”
My father snorted. “I bet. With luck, you won’t be stuck seeing her all that often. She works so much you might see her two or three times a week.”
If Dad wanted a fight, I’d give him a fight. “I go home more often than two or three times a week. And don’t you start. Mom raided the station how many times to make you come home? I learned my work ethic from you.”
“I should protest on principle alone,” my mother announced, “but I rather enjoy only working four days a week.”
I pointed at her. “I’ve heard stories about when you first came to America. You lived to work.”
“Having you for a child made it clear I deserve a good retirement with satisfying yet casual work.”
Why couldn’t I ever win against my parents? “It sounds like you’re trying to convince Detective Davis to retire and serve as my house sitter.”
“That wattle and daub deserves a dedicated house sitter, but I’ll settle with charging a dollar per month in rent with a five percent cap yearly for rent increases. All utilities included.”
I considered it a miracle she wasn’t trying to convince him to marry me, a first for my mother. “You’re going to make me pay for the utilities, aren’t you?”
“Of course.”
My father grinned at me. “She can’t help it, baby. Just like you can’t help being a workaholic. With her genetics and my example? It was inevitable.”
When I planned my revenge, I would target both of my parents and ensure they remembered they’d raised me to be clever, ruthless, and willing to torment them until they died of old age. “Why are you supporting this scheme, Dad?”
“He’s a good cop, but on his payroll? He’ll never experience life outside of an apartment without help. That house is too large for just you. It’s a good deal. Sharing space with someone won’t kill you—probably.”
Whatever. I lost—and won—no matter what I said. “Theoretically, what would my rent be?”
“$1667 over twenty-five years,” my mother announced.
I did the math in my head and rolled my eyes at what the numbers informed me. “That’s the no-interest mortgage payment, Mom.”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
I set my plate on the side table and glared at my mother. “I asked for the rent, not how much my mortgage payment would be.”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“I said rent, Mom. Rent.”
“It’s $2850.59 otherwise.”
“And that would be the mortgage rate with interest over twenty-five years.”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
My mother was the incarnation of pure evil. As she was going the buy it or be nagged route, I asked, “How much is my upfront payment?”
“One agreement to marry a suitable police officer and ten dollars. I’ll even be generous and view your agreement to date police officers until you find one agreeable satisfactory for this transaction.”
And there was the matchmaking scheme. “How about my upfront payment in a purely monetary deal?”
“No good,” she replied, shaking her head. “One marriage to a suitable police officer and fifteen dollars. The five dollar charge is for complaining over such a good deal.”
In the kitchen, Luke’s quad sounded like they were about to die of laughter.
Raymond chuckled, raising a brow. “Do I still have to pay rent if you trick her into such an arrangement?”
“She would be the homeowner and the one responsible for the utility bill, but I hear a suitable police officer would only contribute as he desires.”
As usual, I lost. “All right, all right. Laugh it up, Davis. Get it out of your system.”
“Free rent and paid utilities is very serious business, Abrams.”
“If you give her an inch, she will marry you off. That’s what Chinese mothers do, Raymond. Entering any agreement with a Chinese mother with a single, older daughter is a recipe for marriage.”
The detective smirked, took a step closer, and leaned down to whisper in my ear, “Your legs alone are worth the risk.”
While I blinked, astonished he actually admitted he liked my legs, he strutted towards the kitchen.
Yep, I needed a cold shower.
“I don’t know what he just said to you, but I feel a need to go beat him,” my father grumbled.
As always, my father’s intuition was spot on. “Don’t worry, Dad. I can handle one hot-blooded American cop without help.”
“And just how do you plan on handling him?”
Damn, my father’s daughter-supervising game was strong. “Not in bed with cuffs.”
“How disappointing,” my mother muttered in such a way as to leave zero doubt she intended to continue her quest to marry me off.
“Is that only because you left your cuffs at your apartment?” Dad asked.
Damn, he was on the ball. “If I say yes, will you leave me alone?”
“Yes,” my mother replied with a bright smile. “I’ll loan you a pair of your father’s.”
Dad planted his hands on his hips. “No, you won’t.”
“Yes, I most certainly will.”
“Absolutely not.”
“We might finally marry her off and you say no?”
“Cuffs in bed doesn’t lead to marriage!”
“Well, it should.”
I took my breakfast to the kitchen, and to my relief, neither of my parents noticed my departure. “Luke, can you figure out who to call to warn them Dad will be late? World War IV is about to break out in the living room. I’m going to eat this to make you happy, change, and get out of here while we still can.”
“Would you believe I have the number in my contacts?”
“Don’t be, Olivia. They’re crazy, but they love you.”
That they did.
Chapter Nine
Armed with fresh coffee and my favorite scanner, I walked through the Oakland City Center tracing the statuette’s path. Once I finished my circuit of the shopping center, I hitched a lift with Luke and had him drive at a snail’s pace while I charted the statuette’s path. The trail curved north towards Berkeley, and the trail ended in the middle of the street near a run-down apartment complex. I sipped my coffee and eyed the building before turning to Luke.
I smiled, and I waited for him to figure out what I wanted.
He sighed. “You want a warrant to go in there, don’t you?”
I loved when the minions recognized when I was going to give them a shit job and spared me from having to ask. I pointed at the complex across the street. “There, too, since you’ll be bothering the poor judge anyway.”
His shoulders slumped. “But I don’t want to bother a judge today.”
“You have minions. You could make one of them bother the judge on your behalf. That’s the beautiful thing about minions, Luke. You can make them do the things you don’t want to do. I bet you could beg Ethan to do it, and he might not drag you over coals. If he’s lucky, Judge Meredith will be at the courthouse.”
“I thought we swore never to discuss her and Ethan ever again.” Luke wrinkled his nose. “You’re merciless today.”
“It’s not my fault she has a crush on him.”
“We’d get the warrant, but he’d be in her office for at least an hour ‘discussing the details.’ Can’t you do something about them, boss? Please? He always comes back from the courthouse grinning like a maniac.”
“It makes getting warrants easy, though. Come on, Luke. Don’t be a prude. If they want to entertain themselves in her office, that’s up to them. They’re adults.”
“Do they have to be adults during work hours?”
“The woman has a tough job. She has to validate our requests over the coppers, and that drives her nuts. We all have her number on speed dial, and don’t you even try to tell me you don’t like when you get to visit. She plies you with coffee.”