Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
Present Day
Palm Springs, California
Mission Day Two
Mick tried calling Sam Starrett back while Emily was in the shower, but his call went right to the man’s voicemail.
He tried calling the other Troubleshooters investigator—Jules Cassidy—but same thing.
He didn’t bother leaving a message. They’d see his missed calls.
But then he realized they’d probably try to call him back later, while he and Em were at dinner so he sent Sam a quick text. I tried returning your call, but didn’t reach you. I’m unavailable for the rest of the evening, but I’ll try to call again tomorrow morning.
He hit send and turned off the burner phone—just completely shut it on down. Tomorrow would come soon enough.
He sat out on the balcony, listening to Emily singing in the bathroom. She had a really pretty voice—she’d been singing the first time he’d met her, too.
She was out in her driveway all by herself—there was a basketball hoop on the tiny detached garage of her grandfather’s home, and she was practicing her three-pointers, with unerring accuracy.
She had a boom box playing in the open garage, and she was singing along with some pop tune that he didn’t recognize.
Four years in jail, locked away from the world, had made everything seem weirdly alien upon his return. Popular TV shows that he didn’t recognize. Top forty hits that he’d completely missed. Sequels were out to blockbuster movies that he hadn’t seen.
And as for pretty girls...
Well, he’d missed out on a lot socially, too.
So he’d stopped short as he’d come up the driveway as she’d sent that basketball through the net with a swish, then did a dance move, a spin that made her long brown hair swirl around her as she sang along with the music—and then stopped as she saw him standing there.
“Sorry,” she said, laughing. “I’m being a little weird!”
He’d had to clear his throat before he could speak. “No, that wasn’t... That was really good.”
“The singing or the basketball?” she asked, her dark brown eyes dancing in a mix of embarrassment and amusement.
“Both?”
“Are you asking or telling me?” she asked, and the look in her eyes was...
It had been forever since a girl had looked at him like that. Like she liked what she saw—his long hair pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck, the fit of his T-shirt, the muscles in his legs beneath his jeans.
“Telling.” He knew he wasn’t doing any better at hiding the fact that he, too, liked what he saw. Those eyes, that smile, her generous curves... Although, damn, this girl was barely sixteen.
“Do you play?” Now she was looking like she was going to toss him the ball, invite him to a game of one-on-one.
“Not anymore.” He had to shut this shit down. “I’m looking for your grandfather,” he told her. “Is he home?”
“He’s inside,” she said, curiosity now in her eyes. “Do you work for him?”
“No,” Milt said. “I... no. Um... I’ll...” He motioned with his head toward the front of the house, and headed for the door, glancing back to find her watching him walk away.
But then the sound of the basketball bouncing started again, and she was back to singing as he knocked on the door. His heart was in his throat, but now that he’d met her—Emily—he wanted to do this more than ever. He had to do this. But Jesus Christ, it was not going to be fun.
Milt took a deep breath as the door swung open, and there he was. Frank Santana. Shorter than Milt now was, but big. Burly. With a wide, friendly face, and those same dark brown eyes that he’d clearly shared with Emily—and probably his daughter Marina, too.
Marina, who was dead.
“Mr. Santana,” Milt said. “I’m—”
The older man’s expression changed in a heartbeat, his eyes narrowed and his mouth thinned. “I know exactly who you are,” he whispered through gritted teeth as his hands clenched. “Get the hell off my property.”
“Mr. Santana, you have to sue my father,” Milt said, praying that this man wouldn’t hit him, although knowing that he had every right to.
If their roles had been reversed, he'd already have the man down on the ground, his hands around his throat. “You have to take him to court—civil court. You’ll win, I promise you, and Emily will be set—”
“You keep my granddaughter’s name out of your mouth!” Frank Santana grabbed him then, taking him by the arm and hustling him down the front steps, across the lawn, and onto the sidewalk, on the side of the house away from the driveway where Emily was playing basketball.
He could hear her, still bouncing the ball, still singing, completely unaware of the drama going on out front.
Frank dragged Milt down the sidewalk, farther away from her. “Get the hell out of here!”
“I didn’t kill your daughter!” Milt blurted, which in hindsight was the dead last thing he should’ve said, but he’d only just found out and the truth was still so raw. So unbelievable.
To Frank Santana, too, no doubt, because he slapped Milt then, right across the face. It was teeth-rattling. Brain-jarring. But far less damaging than a punch might’ve been, because it didn’t knock him out.
He could still speak. “My father did,” he told this rightfully angry old man. “He killed her! He was driving the Jaguar that night—not me! I wasn’t even in LA!”
He’d found the evidence—hard proof of his innocence—in both the video files on his father’s old laptop, and in the massive paper files his lawyer had created in preparation for the trial that had never been held.
He’d never gone to trial because his father, the son of a bitch, had urged him to take the DA’s deal and plead guilty.
But he wasn’t guilty. He hadn’t been in town on the early morning that Marina Santana had been killed—but as a kid he’d been confused and overwhelmed by the guilt and hadn’t realized that fact. The video evidence had appeared damning.
Of course it did.
His father had executive produced it.
No, it wasn’t until after he got out of prison that he comprehended the shocking truth: He was innocent.
That video tape had been doctored. The one that had “mysteriously” been leaked to channel five news.
With Milt slumped unconscious over the wheel of the Jag, before being pulled out of the car by his seemingly distraught father.
The one he’d watched all those years ago, over and over, sick to his stomach, that cemented his belief that yes, he was responsible for killing someone’s mother. ...
In truth, it had been recorded days after Marina Santana’s death.
The footage had been edited to remove the timestamp, and a new timestamp, marking it as the morning of the hit-and-run, had been added.
Milt had found the original video, with its pre-edited, accurate timestamp on his father’s computer.
He’d also found—in his top dresser drawer—the ticket stub to the Lady Gaga concert he’d attended in Las Vegas the very same night that Marina had died.
He’d gotten a ride with some college friend of a girl he’d liked—the three of them made the trek to see the show.
But it soon became painfully obvious that Betsy was into her older friend—leaving Milt to just barely survive another shitty night in an endless stretch of shitty nights.
He’d ended up not driving back to LA with them—third wheel and all. And after a night spent staggering up and down the glittering strip, he’d caught a bus home the next morning.
If only he’d been able to see the future, he would’ve saved that bus ticket instead.
Could he have made it home after the concert, in time to kill Marina Santana?
Yes. It was doable. For sure.
But that night Milt had done his getting-shitfaced in Vegas.
And maybe, if he hadn’t been intentionally confused by his father about the date of the hit-and-run, Betsy and what’s-his-name could’ve provided at least half of an alibi.
But that didn’t happen.
Because his father—so concerned in what was truly an Oscar-worthy performance—had advised him to take the plea deal.
For a crime that the old man himself had committed.
Milt had tried to tell Frank Santana this after getting slapped.
“My father framed me,” he told Marina’s still distraught father through lips that were split and bleeding.
“I was in Las Vegas when your daughter died!” Christ, his father had full-on set him up—gotten him blind drunk, stuck him in the car, and hit record on those security cameras. “He doctored that video—I have proof!”
Frank didn’t believe him. He stood there, just shaking his head, disgust on his face.
“Please,” Milt begged. “He killed her—not me. I’ll give you all the evidence you need to file a civil case against him.
” He didn’t dare go to the police with the files that he’d found.
He was certain that someone on the LAPD had helped his father that night.
And he knew for sure that his old man’s smarmy lawyer, Harper, had been in on it.
Going to the police could well end up with him dead, too.
“With a civil case, we can get the truth out—and you can sue him. You can take everything—”
“No,” Frank Santana said flatly. “We’re done with this.
All the money in the world won’t bring my daughter back.
I’m not dragging my family through any more of your screwed up bullshit.
You come back to my house—ever—you go near my granddaughter—ever.
..” He lowered his voice and leaned in. “I will fucking end you.”
“Mick, will you zip me up?”
Mick looked up to see Emily coming out onto the balcony. She’d pulled her hair away from her neck, gathering it in front of her as she turned and gave him her back.
The pull was tiny, but he got her zipped on his first try, kissing her on the nape of her neck.
She turned to smile at him with those gorgeous, dancing brown eyes. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Milt had stayed away from Frank Santana’s granddaughter for years and years and years.
But he’d fallen head over heels in love with her that very first time they’d met.
And, try as he might, after that unexpected incident with the watermelon in the Gelsen’s, after she’d insisted on buying him a coffee to make up for nearly splattering him, and then made it clear she was interested in more and more and then more...
Well.
He didn’t stand a chance.