Chapter 6 #2
Sam was clearly thinking along the same lines as Jules pulled into the parking garage beneath the lawyer’s building. “If she sucks,” he said, “we could just find some random Emily Johnson—give the money to her.”
Jules glanced at Sam before he backed into one of the narrow parking spots marked GUESTS. “I’m pretty sure our job—and our professional reputation—requires us to not do that.”
“Did Dead Milt ever work with Robin?”
“No, he’d already been retired for years.” Jules turned off the car.
Sam reached into the backseat for his jacket. “How about Milt Junior? Is he in the business, too?”
“In Hollywood?” Jules confirmed what Sam meant as they headed for the stairs to the building above them.
“I honestly don’t know, but Robin says he’s never met him either.
I mean, that he remembers.” He didn’t have to explain—Sam knew quite well that Robin’s career as a movie star was clearly divided between pre- and post-sobriety.
“I haven’t had a chance to check with Jane.
This all happened way too fast.” Robin’s sister was a film producer in her own right.
She knew everyone and could be a good source of information.
The stairwell they were in led to a door to the outside. They had to walk around to the front of the building and go through a revolving door into an upscale lobby—modern and clean. It screamed of high-rents—and high-rent clients.
As they headed toward a bank of elevators, Jules saw a small, tasteful sign quietly announcing that there was an empty office for lease on the fourteenth floor. Sam pointed to it as they passed, murmuring, “Over my dead body.”
Jules laughed as he pushed the button for the elevator. God, this was weird. He was going to go upstairs—and not be an FBI agent for the very first time.
“What I don’t get is how someone could make a will and not provide specifics, like the woman’s address or social security number,” Sam said.
“A brief description. The tiniest clue. To Emily Johnson, my favorite stripper at the Alley Cat Bar and Grill. I mean, sure, my will lists Alyssa, and then Haley and Ash, but it’s clear who they are.
But if, say, I had something—a car or a motorcycle that I wanted to give to, I don’t know, Mark Jenkins?
I’d be damn specific about which Mark Jenkins I meant. ”
“Are you trying to drown out the noise in my head?” Jules asked.
“Little bit. Is it working?”
“Eh,” Jules said. “Not really.”
The elevator door opened with a ding, and Jules followed Sam inside.
“If it’s any help, I hate this shit, too,” Sam confessed.
“So...” Jules said, “Let’s do it together, for a living...?”
“No, no, I meant this shit,” Sam clarified, making a motion to the space around them.
“Client interface.” He shook his head. “It’s outside my comfort zone.
I mean, I can do it. Of course I can. I can live through anything.
Firefight, dentist appointment... Walk in, get it over with, walk back out, still alive but with a headache. ”
Jules had to smile at the idea that, for Sam, a firefight—a literal gun battle—was in the same subset as a cavity filling.
Or a client meeting.
“And while we’re kinda on the subject,” Sam continued. “I call not it.”
Ding!
The elevator opened onto the elegantly hushed floor for Ernest B. Harper, Esquire and Associates.
Jules held the door-open button as he turned to look questioningly at his tall friend.
“Team leader,” Sam explained, then repeated as he pointed to himself, “Not it.” He pointed at Jules. “It.”
“Is this... really how we’re doing this?” Jules asked.
“Shit, yeah,” Sam said. “It’s a long-standing Troubleshooters tradition.”
“You are such a liar.”
“Ask Alyssa,” Sam said.
“Oh, I will.” Jules said. “But... I thought we were partners on this case.”
“Well, yeah,” Sam said. “But someone’s gotta have veto power. For this job, I’m not it. I’m an expert in take-downs. Kicking the door in, rescue ops... You’re the expert investigator. Also? I’m a cis, straight, white man. It’s your turn to be in charge and fuck things up.”
Jules didn’t bother to respond.
“You’re welcome.” Sam left the elevator and the only thing Jules could do was follow him. Right to the receptionist’s desk.
“Cassidy and Starrett to see Ernest Harper and Milt Devonshire Junior,” Sam told the young man who sat there.
“They’re ready for you in the conference room,” the young man informed them, his gaze settling on Jules as if he’d picked up on Sam’s Not it, and recognized his team leader status. “I’ll walk you in.”
The youngster led the way down the hall and Jules glanced at Sam who seemed really happy about.
.. and there it was: fully distracting Jules.
Sam had succeeded in getting Jules at least a little bit out of his head as he officially walked into this, the first meeting for his first Troubleshooters case, and in doing so, left his old life behind.
Not it.
Sweet baby Jesus. Jules laughed.
“Thanks, SpongeBob,” he murmured to Sam right before he stepped through the door held open by the receptionist.
“Anytime, Squidward,” Sam said. “But still not it.”
Palm Springs, California
Palm Springs was great.
It was a little less great today, since Mick had to go back to LA for an important meeting for work.
Although in truth, Emily was happy enough to have a quiet day to just sit and read by the pool.
They’d spent a lot of energy the first few days, hiking, shopping, visiting museums in the walkable downtown area near their hotel, and having great meals.
They’d even gone to a rock-climbing gym, which shouldn’t have surprised her, but did.
There was a lot she still didn’t know about Mick—he rarely spoke of his childhood or his parents—but he was as great at rock climbing as he was at everything else. And he was careful to make sure she stayed in her comfort zone, never pushing her to climb too high.
It was fun.
Ish.
Because in the back of her mind, she was worrying about Carlotta’s maybe needing her. Although, the few times they’d talked, her aunt had been adamant that Emily stay away. She was as absolute as she’d been when her focus had been to keep Emily’s name out of the papers and TV reports.
This morning, before she’d gotten out of bed, after Mick left—he drove back early this morning and would return as soon as he could tonight—Emily had gone onto her social media for the first time in days and searched for #Devonshire.
So far it was a non-story. The old man’s obit was in the LA paper, and Variety had done a piece on him, too, but it was small and focused on his hit TV shows, only a few of which remained popular in this new, thankfully more-woke century.
Neither article mentioned her mother’s death.
It was anti-climactic, and at first Emily was mad, but as the morning wore on, she realized it was good. It was a positive thing.
After all, Milton Devonshire Senior hadn’t killed her mother.
His son had.
As tragic and heartbreaking as that had been, that part of Emily’s life was over.
She’d moved on. She’d grown up, and thanks to her mother’s care and forethought, she’d had the insurance money to get a great education at a good school, to buy her own home without a mortgage, and to follow her dreams by starting her own photography studio.
And just this past year, she’d met Mick.
Her mother would’ve loved him.
So what if the son was going to inherit his father’s millions.
And even though Carlotta wouldn’t be satisfied until the son was dead and gone, too—that was going to happen eventually.
That’s just how life worked. Everyone died—no one lived forever.
Not even the people with tens of millions of dollars.
Yes, money made life easier, but it couldn’t buy happiness.
The son would probably be just as miserable as the old man had been.
Emily closed her eyes and remembered the day she’d done it. Gone to see him—Milton Devonshire—at his home.
She knew where he lived—everyone in Hollywood did, his estate was legendary—so she just... called an Uber and went to see him.
When she’d arrived at the property, the elaborately decorative wrought-iron gates were open—there was a delivery truck up around the side of the house—so she’d just walked right in and up the long driveway.
It was like stepping back in time. Spanish architecture. Rolling lawns. Lush gardens. She half expected Cary Grant and Katherine Hepburn to come racing out of the open side door.
Except maybe not, since that propped-open door led into a kitchen that was huge, but empty.
Gleaming white and shiny clean, it screamed of an era in which staff—not just a chef, but kitchen maids and servers—would bustle about, ready to respond to their employers’ every whim.
But from what she’d read, Milton Devonshire lived here alone and was down to a single housekeeper who cooked for him.
“Hello?” Emily called. Well, in truth she spoke rather softly.
She suspected the housekeeper was with the delivery person, and that both had gone through the open door that revealed dimly lit steps going down into some kind of storage or wine cellar.
Another doorway opened into a dry goods pantry.
Yet another had a closed set of double swinging doors.
Highly aware that she shouldn’t be doing this, Emily chose the swinging doors and went out into a narrow servants hall that led, eventually, to a single swinging door. She pushed it and peeked through.
It opened into a magnificent, high-ceilinged and very formal dining room.
What a room it was. It held a huge, dark wood table with well over a dozen chairs around it. An enormous glittering chandelier hung overhead. The floors were hardwood with gorgeous borders—Victorian parquet, it was called, and it was museum quality.