Jules Cassidy, P.I. (Troubleshooters #20)

CHAPTER ONE

Present Day

Van Nuys, California

Mission Day Three

The front door of the house was ajar.

Jules Cassidy spotted it from the sidewalk. He knew Sam saw it, too—from the bigger man’s subtle energy shift. Sam went from relaxed alert to engaged alert. And when Jules glanced back at him to confirm, their brief eye contact would’ve been enough even without Sam’s slight nod.

A perk of working with one of your best friends—communication was instant.

But when Sam pulled a handgun from a holster he’d apparently been wearing under his arm, keeping it tucked in close to his body—no point in frightening the neighbors by waving it about—Jules felt the need to whisper, “What the hell, Starrett?”

This had been deemed, by Sam himself, an “easy case.”

Easy and danger-free.

Locate a woman who’d been left a fortune by elderly Milton F. Devonshire, recently deceased Hollywood producer, and earn a small mountain of money for Jules’s new employer, Troubleshooters Incorporated.

Piece o’ cake, Sam had said in the slow drawl that matched his long, tall Texan height, sun-bleached hair, and cowboy boots.

Of course it would’ve been an even easier piece o’ cake had the woman been named something unique like Calantha Bombardo instead of Emily Johnson.

But other than the PITA factor of there being hundreds of Emily Johnsons in the Greater Los Angeles area, which had resulted in two very un-fun days—so far—of searching for the correct Emily, this was absolutely the type of follow-the-paper-trail case in which an investigator would automatically leave their Glock home, secure in a lockbox.

Sure, they’d stumbled across potential evidence of fraud as they’d dug into the dead producer’s illustrious life, but that seemingly had nothing to do with finding Emily Johnson.

But Sam was Sam. “Navy SEAL,” he explained his weapon in an unnecessary whisper back to Jules as they cautiously approached this latest Emily’s open door, because yeah, no shit, Obi Wan. The SEAL was—and had always been—strong in this one.

At a closer glance, it was clear that Emily’s door had been kicked in. It was hanging drunkenly from its top hinge—the others had broken from a brutal forced entry. That was enormously ungood.

Since Sam was the only one of them who’d been stupid—or smart—enough to carry concealed on a mind-numbing series of routine identity checks on an ordinary Friday morning in an allegedly easy case, Jules let the former SEAL nudge his way in front as they drew closer, moving silently toward that hanging-open door.

This well-worn little SoCal Valley neighborhood of mostly single-story homes was close to silent in the warm morning breeze.

A leaf-blower buzzed in the distance and somewhere even farther away a dog barked.

Jules could hear the traffic from Sepulveda swooshing past and somewhere overhead a single-prop airplane droned.

This latest Emily’s house was as silent as the grave, and just as welcoming, with the window shades tightly pulled down. Whatever room that front door opened into was unlit and filled with shadows. But they were shadows that didn’t shift or jump or move at all, so two thumbs up for that at least.

Sam met Jules’s eyes again as he positioned his gun into more of a ready stance, his silent message an obvious Shall we?

It was then and there that the absurdity of the automatic pilot that they’d instantly slipped into took hold.

They were in the freaking suburbs. This was neither a war zone nor a known nest of criminal activity—not even close.

Were they really going to burst into some random and potentially innocent Emily Johnson’s little house, weapon drawn and ready for a fight?

Jules wasn’t an FBI agent anymore—ouch, that realization still sharply stung.

And even though anyone who had ever worn the uniform knew “once a SEAL always a SEAL,” Sam Starrett really wasn’t a SEAL anymore, either.

They were investigators. On an easy case.

Searching for a soon-to-be-very-wealthy woman.

“Wait,” Jules told Sam quietly. “This isn’t.

.. We can’t...” On the drive over, he’d been certain this particular visit was perfunctory.

But they needed to tick the box next to this address as they went down their long, long list of Los Angeles-area Emily Johnsons.

He took a breath. “We don’t even think this is our Emily. ”

But Sam shook his head. “Oh,” he whispered back. “I think with this, we do.”

It was clear that Sam saw the broken door as the equivalent of a big orange flashing neon sign saying Found Her!

But maybe... “It could be a coincidence.”

Sam laughed a near-silent but mighty WTF burst—a combo of both amusement and disbelief. “You don’t believe in coincidences,” he shot back in a whisper.

“There’s a first time for everything.” Jules warmed to the idea. “Like, I don’t know, a disgruntled ex, pissed that this Emily changed the locks...? He came in anyway, to... get his gaming console and his favorite pair of cargo shorts.”

Even as he said the words, the idea that the broken hinges and splintered wood of the door was the coincidental result of an ex “coming in anyway” did seem highly unlikely. On the other hand, most exes were exes for damn good reasons.

“Or,” Sam pointed out a tad acerbically, still in a whisper, “someone—Milt the Junior—just found out Emily’s first in line to inherit Daddy’s twenty million dollars and decided to disappear her before we could make contact.”

Jules shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense.” Milt the Junior had hired them to find Emily. He didn’t know who she was, plus... “Milt the Junior doesn’t even want the money.”

“Milt the Junior is a well-established liar who says he doesn’t want the money,” Sam corrected him. “Which immediately makes him a suspect in my book. Who the hell doesn’t want twenty million dollars?”

It was a good question, and yes, the man had omitted some important details about his troubled history with his father during their interview on Wednesday.

But the sincerity vibe Jules had gotten from the deceased’s estranged son had been heavy-duty.

Although unconventional in appearance, Milt Devonshire Junior—or whatever alias he was currently using—was telling the truth about not wanting the inheritance.

Jules would’ve bet his life on it. “Someone who already has enough money, who really, really hates their father?”

“Are we seriously going to stand out here and argue about this? Right now?”

“I dunno, Sam. I know you’ve got issues with Milt the Junior, but frankly, I believe him about this.”

“So that’s a hearty hell yes,” Sam answered his own question. He sighed heavily and said, “Okay, Cassidy. Let’s discuss. Wouldn’t Milt the Junior hate the old bastard even more for cutting him out and leaving his money to someone unrelated?”

“I don’t think she’s unrelated.” Common-law wife and/or illegitimate child were both still completely on the table.

Despite everything they’d learned in the past few days—or maybe because of it—Jules’s current favorite working theory was one that his husband Robin had posed: that the mysterious Emily was offspring from a romantic liaison that her parents had never made public.

Although this Emily Johnson, owner of the house with the broken door, was twenty-seven with a birthday in May, which meant that Milt the Senior had gotten busy with her mother while he was in the hospital with a broken femur.

According to the background info they’d finally received just last night, he’d been there for twelve weeks, even producing the pilot episode for one of his TV shows from his hospital bed.

And while it was true that the making-a-baby-while-in-traction thing was not impossible, it was highly unlikely.

Although it definitely worked with that potential new experience Milt the Senior had mentioned in a brief, scribbled note to Emily that he’d attached to his will.

As did a twenty-something woman showing up on his doorstep to announce, Hello, you’re my father.

“I’m gonna knock,” Jules decided and did just that, rapping on what remained of the door with his knuckles, which of course pushed it farther open.

“Hello?” he called loudly into the dim shadows of the house.

He tried the switches by the front door, but no lights went on.

Clearly the power had been cut. “Emily? Emily Johnson...?”

The door’s movement brought daylight into a tiny landing that opened into a compact living and dining area that led into a small galley kitchen.

The place was nicely furnished—stainless appliances in the kitchen, cleanly simple dining room set, sofa and comfy chair in the living area, flat-screen on the wall, gas fireplace.

A security cam sat on the mantle, aimed at the door, but if the power had been cut before the forced entry—and it surely had—there’d likely be nothing to see in the security app’s history, which was a shame.

According to their notes, this Emily owned the place, free and clear—no mortgage, which was unusual for this neighborhood.

A pile of business cards were out on the tiny island that separated the kitchen from the dining area.

Emily Johnson Photography. Jules pocketed one—if only to call to tell her about the broken door and the cut power.

Jules raised his voice again. “Emily? Anyone home?”

Again, there was no response.

Aside from the door, there weren’t any signs of struggle or anything else that shouted felony as Jules quietly moved across the living room to the opening for the hallway that led to the little home’s back bedrooms. From the number of doorways leading off that corridor, there was one bath and three bedrooms, doors all open, all quiet and still.