Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Present Day
Sherman Oaks, California
Mission Day One
Robin was pacing back and forth across the living room floor of the rental house when Jules and Sam finally—finally!—pulled into the driveway.
Jules was on the phone, and he stayed outside talking to whoever was on the other end while Sam came in.
Robin did his best not to pounce on him. “How’d it go?”
His anxiety must’ve been leaking out of his ears because Sam pulled him in for a quick hug and a noogie atop his head—which was completely not normal. But these were not normal times, and God, he appreciated the warmth and connection more than Sam could ever know.
“The world,” Sam told him, “has delivered us an enormous, quivering what-the-fuck perched atop a suitcase full of cash.”
Robin pulled back, uncertain. Sam sounded cheerful but... “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
“Oh, it’s good.” Jules’s call must’ve ended, because he was standing in the doorway, taking off his jacket and tie as he added, “Nothing like a giant what-the-fuck to provide a distraction from the raging American shitstorm. Plus the suitcase appears to be stuffed with limitless cash, so any worries about how long this job could take aren’t an issue. ”
“That’s great,” Robin enthused, hoping he’d get a hug from Jules, too, but his husband was already heading back into the entry toward the stairs to the second floor.
“I need to hit the bathroom and change,” he called back to them. “I’ll be down in a minute and we can figure out dinner.” But then he turned and came back a few steps, asking Robin, “How’d your meeting go?”
“Oh it was fine,” he said dismissively, even though it was so much more than that.
A casual meet-and-greet with a studio head had turned into an offer for a series.
A really good series—and a comedy for a change.
God knows, these days people needed to laugh.
But now was definitely not the time to steal the focus with a deep dive into whether or not Robin should take on a project that could possibly lock him in for three long years.
That conversation was desperately needed, but not right now.
“Go pee,” he told Jules. “And change. I want to hear all about this—” he glanced back at Sam, who’d parked himself on the sofa, how had he put it? “—quivering gargantuan awfulness.”
“Enormous quivering what-the-fuck,” Sam repeated, his attention on his phone, “Although gargantuan awfulness works.”
“It wasn’t that awful. But there are many unanswered questions,” Jules told Robin with—wait, was that the hint of a twinkle in his eyes?
“Wig!” Sam shouted from the living room, which—yes!—made Jules laugh as he headed up the stairs.
Although, a-few-months-ago-Jules would’ve taken the steps two at a time, in his haste to get back down here to tell Robin—wig?—all about whatever had happened. Today’s Jules trudged. But he’d laughed and even twinkled his eyes a bit, which was a vast improvement.
“How’d it really go?” Robin asked as he sat down next to Sam on the couch. “Is he okay?”
“He will be,” Sam said. “Give him time.”
“It’s not just losing his career,” Robin said. “Or the rest of the fuckery from the election.”
“Yeah, I know.” Sam put his phone down, focusing his full attention on Robin. “How are you?”
“I’m not okay yet either,” he admitted, “but I’m great at faking it.”
Sam nodded. “Maybe... don’t?”
“Yeah, and add worrying that I’ll self-destruct to his shit-list?” Not a chance. Jules was dealing with enough.
“You gonna self-destruct?” Sam’s piercing blue eyes suddenly damn near pinned Robin to his seat.
It was hard not to get huffy because it had been so freaking long since Robin had last had a drink.
But the fact remained that there was a time when the stress of their current lives could’ve pushed him over the edge.
So Sam’s was a valid question—as a recovering alcoholic, it would be a valid question until the day Robin died.
So Robin didn’t huff. He just quietly answered, “No, I’m not, but I don’t want him to worry that I will.”
“I’m pretty sure he doesn’t worry about that,” Sam pointed out. “I mean, I do, or, rather, I did, but... Jules has faith in you, Boy Wonder. So much, that it’s contagious.”
Did.
Sam’s use of the past tense hit him in the gut, and he felt his eyes tear up.
“Thanks, Sam,” Robin whispered. “It’s just that he’s so...” He searched for the right word. “Weirdly detached. I honestly don’t think he’s cried yet about any of this. Certainly not in front of me, and I don’t even think in the shower, you know?”
Sam nodded. “Give him time,” he said again. “Let him grieve in his own way, at his own pace. His heart’s been broken—part of him’s still in shock. He loved the work he was doing—defending a country and a government that’s just told him he’s unwelcome and unwanted.”
Robin must’ve looked like he was about to argue, because Sam stopped him.
“And I know, I hear you, the American people voted the way they voted through apathy or ignorance or whatever, I don’t give a shit, and Jules doesn’t either.
Bottom line, enough people didn’t care, and this happened, and he’s a casualty, and it sucks.
Me, back in the day as it were, I was a casualty of my very own stupidity and carelessness, making choices that came back to bite me on the ass, earning me my visit from the Navy’s Unwelcome Wagon.
But Jules...” He shook his head. “He didn’t do anything wrong.
You know, I’m pretty sure he loved his job at the Bureau even more than I loved being a SEAL—which was a lot.
Bottom line though? He loves you more. And he loves me, and Alyssa, and Ash and Haley—shit, I’m pretty sure he even loves grumpy Dave Malkoff, who’s handling some support work for us from the San Diego office—”
“Yeah, I definitely don’t love Dave anymore.
He just sent us this.” Jules was back downstairs.
He was carrying a clipped packet of papers about the same size as the thirty minute TV pilot script that Robin had brought home with him.
He’d pulled on shorts and a T-shirt and his feet were bare.
His hair was adorably messy and a little damp as if he’d splashed water on his face.
Sam sat up, eagerly reaching for the packet.
Jules surrendered it as he sat down half beside and half on top of Robin, pulling him in for a kiss and a long, tight hug, thank God.
He’d been so distant—trapped inside of his own head—but this, despite the fact that he still looked too damn tired, felt far more normal.
Having Sam here and actively working a case was good. Well, maybe not quite good, but certainly better.
“Ah, shit,” Sam said. “I was hoping for background info on the Devonshire family freakshow. This is... Holy shit, is this...? What the fuck, Dave?”
“It’s a working list of Emily Johnsons in the greater Los Angeles area,” Jules told Robin. “Arranged in zip code order. Dave thought he should compile that first. I do not agree.”
“Whoa,” Robin said. “Big list.”
“Lotta Emilys here,” Sam confirmed. “Damn.”
“Yeah.” Jules looked over at Sam. “Dave also sent us a statewide list of Emilys, and a very large national one—I didn’t print those out, but sweet Jesus, Mrs. Johnson, pick a different name for your daughter! God help us if we have to knock on all those doors.”
Sam looked at Jules over the top of the packet of paper. “We’re not there yet.”
“We’re pretty freaking close,” Jules said.
Sam turned to tell Robin, “We’ve made contact with three out of the four former housekeepers, none of whom have any memory of any Emily Johnson at any time in Dead Milt’s life.”
Dead Milt...? Which made sense since Milt Devonshire had named his son Milt Devonshire, and it could get confusing when discussing them.
“Four out of four,” Jules reported. “That was Rene, calling me back.”
“Ah, shit,” Sam said.
“Yeah. She didn’t know any Emilys either, but she thought it would be a good idea to check her computer records, which are still over at the estate.
So maybe, but I doubt it.” He told Robin, “Rene was the fourth and final housekeeper.” Back to Sam.
“She’ll meet us over there, tomorrow, around three. ”
“Good to know.” Sam input the info into the calendar on his phone.
“Fun fact: She hates Harper—with the power of a thousand fiery suns, although she didn’t say that in so many words.
She also confirmed that there’s never been any files of any kind in the house—not during her time there, which was only around nine months.
” Jules had his phone out now, too. “I’m making a note to call the other housekeepers back and ask them about that.
” He glanced at Robin. “I spoke to them before we got the keys to the estate. The place is huge, and we even went up in the attic, but there were no personal files, no filing cabinets, no paperwork of any kind. Not anywhere. That we saw, at least.”
“The door to the library was locked,” Sam told Robin. “We were thinking maybe it’s all in there. Devonshire’s old calendars and files and address books with Emily’s info neatly printed on the page for the Js. Is Rene gonna bring that key?”
“Yeah,” Jules informed Sam. “She said she’s got a copy; she’ll leave it with us.
But she also says there’re no files in the library.
At least not that she ever found. When she was there—and probably before that, too, I’ll check—Devonshire was using that room as his bedroom.
I think when he reached a certain age, he couldn’t make it up the stairs.
Is that weird?” He was asking Robin, and he clarified, “A producer, with no piles of scripts lying around? No files in the house at all...?”
“That is pretty weird.” Robin had to agree.
“It felt sanitized,” Sam said. “You know, intentionally cleaned out.” He was back to flipping through the massive list of Emilys. “We’ve got phone numbers here but no email addresses.”