Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Present Day
Sherman Oaks, California
Mission Day Two
So this had been one hell of a day.
Sam sat in the living room, Chinese fortune-cookie wrappers on the coffee table in front of him, reading through, for a second time, the report on the Devonshires that had finally showed up from the San Diego office.
There wasn’t much here that they hadn’t already learned. The biggest surprise was the fact that Wig-Milt had changed his name shortly after getting out of prison.
Sam couldn’t blame him much for that. Carrying around that Devonshire moniker with its manslaughter conviction had surely sucked. So Wig-Milt was Mick O’Rourke now—would’ve been nice for him to tell them that, but okay.
The TS report included all the deets necessary, and Mick O’Rourke seemed to be an exemplary citizen.
No appearances in the county drunk tank, despite his food-encrusted clothes and dog-shatted hairpiece.
He paid his taxes on time. Got a degree.
Owned a nice home out in Woodland Hills.
Worked as a post-production sound editor, doing mostly indie films at a seriously affordable rate.
And although it also would’ve been nice to have had all this information before they’d walked into Harper’s conference room yesterday, it really didn’t give them much in terms of finding Emily Johnson.
Talking to Milt—Mick—would’ve helped, but Sam and Jules both had missed his call while dealing with the police after the accident. Milt/Mick had texted Sam, saying he’d call again tomorrow. Friday.
The day Sam had been hoping he could take the afternoon off in order to drive down to San Diego to see Alyssa and Ash.
Did Jules even take weekends? Probably not, especially when Robin was on set, which he suddenly was—the writers had surprised him with five more days of work, which included both Saturday and Sunday of this coming weekend.
And back when Jules was in the FBI, his cases had nearly always had the kind of urgency that didn’t mesh well with a Saturday afternoon cookout.
This case, however, was not that. They could hit the pause button on finding Emily Johnson without doing more than potentially annoying the client.
On the other hand, since Robin would still be working, it might be a better idea for Lys and Ash to drive up here.
Sam glanced over to where Robin was using his iPad to review his lines of dialogue for tomorrow’s filming. He was sitting on the floor, leaning up against the sofa where Jules was stretched out, fast asleep, one hand possessively on Robin’s shoulder.
Jules had been bullshit today, about not knowing anything about the death of Marina Santana—the fact that the client had stolen his father’s car and killed her in an accident made worse because he’d fled the scene.
It was unbelievably stupid that neither Sam nor Jules had thought to google the client and his dead father before that first meeting. A wealth of information would’ve come up, right at their fingertips.
In fact, tonight, over dinner, Robin had been surprised that they’d both been so totally blindsided by the info about Wig-Milt’s arrest and the impending court case turned into guilty plea.
It had been big-time news back when it happened—and not just in Hollywood.
Plus it bounced back into the national spotlight when Wig-Milt was released from prison.
Robin hadn’t mentioned it because he’d assumed they both knew.
It was like, oh yeah the hit-and-run Devonshires, everybody knows them.
But nope. Sam and Jules both had missed that tabloid freakshow, probably because they’d been focusing on preventing some real news, by stopping terrorists from blowing up Atlanta. Or maybe London. Or San Diego. Or possibly Kazabek City. Hard to remember where they were when.
But okay. They were caught up now.
And back at the Devonshire estate, minutes after the name Marina Santana had appeared in the google search on Sam’s phone, he’d put in a request from the TS main office for a full-scale report on her, her family, her loved ones, her work associates, her friends, even her freaking dog if she had one.
Because maybe she had no connection to their mysterious Emily Johnson, but her death was no doubt the biggest point of contention between Wig-Milt—Mick—and his dad, so hey, why not start there.
Still, seeing Jules that angry had been... good, actually. The man had been walking around slightly displaced in his own body—as if he still hadn’t fully committed to this new reality. But going rip-shit—Jules had been one-hundred percent present in that moment.
Same for the accident. Sweet Jesus, that could’ve been bad—a reminder to them both that random fuckery happened. Sam was lucky as hell that Jules had been paying attention.
But in the adrenaline-laced aftermath, Jules had been fully Jules then, too.
Making sure sweet young Denise wasn’t mistreated by the police officers who arrived at the scene—he’d been one-hundred percent in Batman-mode.
Even after he and Sam were told they could go, Jules refused to leave until Denise was released, too.
Alyssa was always saying that bad things came in threes. And Robin, who loved comedy far more than the intense dramas he kept getting cast in, was always talking about call-backs, and how something funny had the biggest impact the third time it popped up.
Maybe the same was true for emotional gut-punches.
Whatever the case, Sam had been standing next to Jules when that goddamn calendar notification popped up on his phone. That stupid-ass reminder that next week their baby would not be born, because their baby had never come to be.
But maybe it was a good thing. Because it wasn’t Zombie-Jules who got the jarring message. It was Jules-Jules who read it. Who felt it.
Who let himself feel it.
And when, finally, the flurry of texts started coming in from Robin, when Jules started texting him back—it was like watching the ice break on a frozen river.
“Fuhhhck,” Robin breathed, carefully quiet so as not to disturb Jules.
Sam gave him a what look, and Robin laughed a little as he shook his head.
“I just got an email with new pages for tomorrow,” he whispered. “Everything I learned over the past few hours—all of the dialogue—has been completely changed.”
“Seriously?” Sam whispered.
“Yup,” Robin said.
“Why do you put up with that?”
Robin laughed again. “No, see, I say fuhhhck, but I love it. Tomorrow’s gonna be so much fun. Anything could happen.”
Robin was lit up, and Sam smiled back at him. Damn, they were more alike than he’d ever really understood. And yeah. He looked again at Jules. That made sense.
Robin glanced over his shoulder at Jules, too, his face softening before he turned to Sam. “He finally cried,” he breathed.
Sam nodded. “I kinda saw it coming.”
“Thank you,” Robin whispered.
Now Sam shook his head. “Wasn’t me.” He laughed. “Although the whole not-dying thing might’ve helped.”
“Well, keep it up. Don’t die tomorrow, too, okay?”
“Always number one on my things-to-do list, Boy Wonder,” Sam told him. He checked his phone—it was still early, not even 1930 hours—so he went back to reading the report for a third time.
Third could well be the charm.
“This is gonna sound...” Jules searched for the right words. “I’m gonna go with batshit crazy.” He stopped himself. “First things first. Any luck?” he asked Sam.
The former SEAL was sitting in the living room where Jules had left him—in the easy chair across from the sofa. Robin had moved from the floor to the cushioned seats.
Jules had tasked Sam with tracking down the so-called security head for Devonshire Place.
“Clayton Spencer used to be LAPD,” Sam drawled.
“Lindsey knew of him—he was on her assholes-to-avoid list, which she admits was pretty long. But she also said there were whispers that he was, well... She used the word corruptible. She thinks there was an IA investigation or two, but he always came up clean. She wasn’t sure of the exact date, but she thinks he left a little bit after she did, moving into the private sector.
She thought he opened his own security agency, but if so, it’s old school.
There’s no website, no Yelp reviews—at least nothing that his name is connected to, so. ..”
“No contact info.” Jules nodded.
“The TS office should come up with something,” Sam said, “But that’s gonna—”
“Take time,” Jules finished for him. “I know. I’ll push Harper harder.”
“Tomorrow I’ll see if I can’t make contact with Lindsey’s guy, what’s-his-name,” Sam said. “Andre Lennox. He might’ve known Spencer.”
“How about that timeline?” Jules asked. “Have you managed to—”
“It’s on the table.” Sam gestured with his head toward the dining room where—Jules had to laugh—the former SEAL had gone old-school and then some.
He’d used a sharpie on a roll of paper towels to create a hard-copy, well-spaced, written-out timeline of events, starting a few years before Marina Santana’s death and leaving a lot of open real estate—a towel per year—for info to be added.
The precise date of the hit-and-run, the date of Wig-Milt’s plea deal, the dates of his imprisonment and release... It was all there, as was the date of Milt the Senior’s Will re-write, his “massive” stroke, and then, three towel panels later, the date of his death.
It was quite the work of art. Sam’s handwriting wasn’t the greatest, but he’d taken his time and the lettering was clear and bold—reminiscent of angry dialogue in a comic book.
“Nice,” Jules said.
“Hey, it works,” Sam shot back, but he was laughing a little, too.