“Taylor really wants to ride with you,” Ella said now.
“And what, leave his car here in Los Angeles? That’s ridiculous. It’s broad daylight, and it’s not that far of a drive.”
Too bad for Bob Taylor. Casey zipped her suitcase closed and set it on its wheels on the floor, telescoping its handle so she could pull it behind her as she went into the living room. She had her iPad, her phone charger... Yeah, she was ready to go.
Casey closed the blinds to the back slider as she continued, “Someone’s gonna call back while we’re on the road. Either Rosetti—” it was easier calling him that, the way Ella did “—or Becker. And when they do, Chief Taylor will be released from whatever it was he’d promised Rosetti he’d do, and then it’ll just be you and me. You in Jon’s car and me in your Batmobile. Perfectly safe as we drop stupid Jon’s stupid car then go and lock ourselves into a room at the Hotel del Coronado and drink ourselves unconscious.”
“Ooh, I’ve always wanted to stay at the Del,” Ella confessed. “But it’s a hard no on any drinking until unconsciousness. Not until we know what’s going on. I need you to stay able to walk or even run if you need to.”
“Yeah, I knew you’d say that,” Casey muttered as she pulled her suitcase toward the front door.
“I know you think this is something Rosetti made up so he could stay close to you.” Ella followed her out the door, empathy in her dark brown eyes. “And you might be right. But I do appreciate your willingness to take these precautions, because I can see that this one hurt you. Badly. And I know locking yourself in somewhere with me is the last thing you want to be doing right now. I’ll try my best to stay out of your way, give you space.”
“I actually trusted him,” Casey whispered. “I believed him. I... even fell in love with him, El. I’m such an idiot.”
“No, you’re not, baby. You’re human.”
“But he wasn’t even real, and I didn’t have the tiniest clue—”
“Have you ever met anyone who’s completely real? Who’s not hiding something?” Ella asked. “Because I sure as hell haven’t. Discovering all of your partner’s secrets and lies is one of the things that makes life interesting. Also? When you met this guy, he was pretending to be Dave’s boyfriend, right? He was helping out a friend by pretending to be gay. What kind of straight man does that? One who is well worth taking the time to get to know a little better, in my opinion. For what it’s worth.” She handed Casey her SUV keys. “When you get in, the Bluetooth will connect with your cell phone. Call me. I want an open line between us for the entire drive. If we get disconnected by a cell tower, I will call you back ASAP. Got it?”
Casey nodded.
“You go first, follow the GPS route we’ve planned, and I’ll be directly behind you. If I tell you to do something—pull off or exit or anything: even if it seems absurd like, honk your horn, speed up, wave like Queen Elizabeth—you do it. No questions, no arguments. Is that clear?”
Casey nodded again, but she knew Ella well enough to know the security specialist would need it verbalized. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. Get in my vehicle and adjust the seat and mirrors while I go disappoint the Navy SEAL.”
The address Jon had given Rio was for a crumbling establishment called the Infinity Lounge.
A dive bar. Fucking Jon-without-an-H, fresh out of rehab, had asked Rio to meet him at a low-life, stank-ass dive bar.
This stupidly shitty day had managed, somehow, to get even shittier.
Rio pulled in to the nearly empty and heavily pitted parking lot next to the single-story, stand-alone, sagging structure and headed around to the back. This was going to be fun. Jesus Christ.
Broken glass sparkled against the mix of rough pavement and ineffective gravel fill in the late morning sunlight. Rio carefully navigated his way through it, backing the yellow VW into one of the many empty spots at the far end of the lot. Only then did he pick up his phone and text, Here.
Son of a bitch.
He climbed out of the car—no way was he going to let Jon sit in Tasha’s VW to talk. The only thing worse than returning the car with a glass-punctured tire was returning it after a drunken asshole had vomited all over the dash.
That smell would never come out.
The sun was hot against the top of Rio’s head and shoulders as he checked his phone. The caller from the 360 area code had left a message, but nothing yet from Jon.
The lounge’s back door was propped open with a broken concrete block, and bass-heavy strains of music drifted out. As did the distinct smell of old beer on cheap floors, and that unique dive-bar building-rot stench, mixed with gag-worthy stale cigarette smoke. It was dark in there, and probably much cooler than out here.
Rio pocketed his phone and was just about to hold his nose and head in when Jon emerged.
“Hey,” he said in greeting, hitching his walk into a shuffled run to meet Rio farther from that door.
Okay, so Jon didn’t want to talk inside. That much was pretty clear.
Rio planted himself, crossing his arms. “What,” he said. “The fuck.”
“I know this looks bad,” Jon said, his voice low, “but I’m here because Cody told me to come and hang. It’s where I first met Frank.”
