“Or,” Sam pointed out a tad acerbically, still in a whisper, “someone—Milt the Junior—just found out Emily’s first in line to inherit Daddy’s twenty million dollars and decided to disappear her before we could make contact.”
Jules shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense.” Milt theJunior had hired them to find Emily. He didn’t know who she was, plus... “Milt the Junior doesn’t even want the money.”
“Milt the Junior is a well-established liar whosayshe doesn’t want the money,” Sam corrected him. “Which immediately makes him a suspect inmybook. Who the hell doesn’t want twenty million dollars?”
Itwasa good question, and yes, the manhadomitted some important details about his troubled history with his father during their interview on Wednesday. But the sincerity vibe Jules had gotten from the deceased’s estranged son had been heavy-duty. Although unconventional in appearance, Milt Devonshire Junior—or whatever alias he was currently using—was telling the truth about not wanting the inheritance. Jules would’ve bet his life on it. “Someone who already has enough money, who really,reallyhates their father?”
“Are we seriously going to stand out here and argue about this? Right now?”
“I dunno, Sam. I know you’ve got issues with Milt the Junior, but frankly, I believe him about this.”
“So that’s a heartyhell yes,” Sam answered his own question. He sighed heavily and said, “Okay, Cassidy. Let’s discuss. Wouldn’t Milt the Junior hate the old bastard even more for cutting him out and leaving his money to someone unrelated?”
“I don’t think she’s unrelated.” Common-law wife and/or illegitimate child were both still completely on the table. Despite everything they’d learned in the past few days—or maybe because of it—Jules’s current favorite working theory was one that his husband Robin had posed: that the mysterious Emily was offspring from a romantic liaison that her parents had never made public.
AlthoughthisEmily Johnson, owner of the house with thebroken door, was twenty-seven with a birthday in May, which meant that Milt the Senior had gotten busy with her mother while he was in the hospital with a broken femur. According to the background info they’dfinallyreceived just last night, he’d been there for twelve weeks, even producing the pilot episode for one of his TV shows from his hospital bed. And while it was true that the making-a-baby-while-in-traction thing was not impossible, it was highly unlikely. Although it definitely worked with that potentialnew experienceMilt the Senior had mentioned in a brief, scribbled note to Emily that he’d attached to his will. As did a twenty-something woman showing up on his doorstep to announce,Hello, you’re my father.
“I’m gonna knock,” Jules decided and did just that, rapping on what remained of the door with his knuckles, which of course pushed it farther open. “Hello?” he called loudly into the dim shadows of the house. He tried the switches by the front door, but no lights went on. Clearly the power had been cut. “Emily? Emily Johnson...?”
The door’s movement brought daylight into a tiny landing that opened into a compact living and dining area that led into a small galley kitchen. The place was nicely furnished—stainless appliances in the kitchen, cleanly simple dining room set, sofa and comfy chair in the living area, flat-screen on the wall, gas fireplace.
A security cam sat on the mantle, aimed at the door, but if the power had been cut before the forced entry—and it surely had—there’d likely be nothing to see in the security app’s history, which was a shame.
According to their notes, this Emily owned the place, free and clear—no mortgage, which was unusual for this neighborhood. A pile of business cards were out on the tiny island that separated the kitchen from the dining area.EmilyJohnson Photography.Jules pocketed one—if only to call to tell her about the broken door and the cut power.
Jules raised his voice again. “Emily? Anyone home?”
Again, there was no response.
Aside from the door, there weren’t any signs of struggle or anything else that shouted felony as Jules quietly moved across the living room to the opening for the hallway that led to the little home’s back bedrooms. From the number of doorways leading off that corridor, there was one bath and three bedrooms, doors all open, all quiet and still.
“Heads up...” Sam’s voice held a note of warning, but it wasn’t about Jules tiptoeing down that hall to peek into the rooms. No, Sam’s attention was sharply focused back out on the street. “Large black SUV just pulled up. Tinted windows, just like the one that... Fuck! Gun! Get down! Now!”
Jules didn’t hesitate. He dove for the laminate on the hallway floor as—holy shit!—the front windows exploded with a crash of broken glass behind their tightly closed blinds. “Sam!”
But Sam wasn’t caught in the hail of bullets. He’d flung himself across the living room and down, landing half on top of Jules as there was a second crash, which was no doubt the destruction of the wall-mounted TV, across from those windows. From this vantage point, glancing up, Jules could see the puff of white powder as some of the bullets fully penetrated the drywall that separated the living room from this hallway, before embedding themselves into the far wall with a dull thud.
“Go!” Sam was shouting as he himself was already in motion, army-crawling down the hall toward the farthest bedroom, pulling Jules with him as he went. “Move! Go! Now!”
“How many shooters?” Jules shouted back even as herealized that reaching for his phone to call for FBI backup—which he’d done automatically—was no longer an option. This new gig was all him and Sam. Only him and Sam, since they were here in LA instead of San Diego where the main Troubleshooters office was based. Of course, this new gig was supposed to be devoid of any and all large black SUVs filled with people trying to kill them, so therewasthat.
“I didn’t stop to count to more than two,” Sam shouted, “front and back windows. But it’s one of those big motherfuckers with a third row of seats.”
Jules did the math as he rounded the corner into Emily’s back bedroom—the primary—on his elbows. The intentionally serene blue walls didn’tquiteeliminate the anxiety of weapons being fired in their direction, but nice try, Unknown Interior Designer. He scrambled up into a crouch that matched Sam’s as they both beelined for the rear window, which turned out to be a convenient slider door. Yay? “So... anywhere from three to eight.”
With only a single handgun between the two of them, along with a limited amount of ammunition,run like hellwas, absolutely, the best option for surviving this scenario.
Jules unlocked and easily slid the glass door open as Sam’s attention was caught by something on a little white table next to the bed—comfortable, neatly made, king—but the screen door was locked and Jules couldn’t get it open, how the holy bejeezus did this mechanism work?
But then Sam was back and finessing the mechanism became moot as he jammed one big booted foot through the screen and pulled Jules outside with him.
The neatly landscaped backyard was—shit!—fully enclosed, with a wooden fence that was freaking high—extending way up above even Sam’s head. Getting over it was gonna suck, but get over it they would.
They had to.
Jules ran across a small area of grass that was surrounded by beds of flowers and bushes that lined that towering fence, heading—bingo!—for a large stone statue of a smiling Buddha that sat in the far corner. Sam was clearly thinking the same thing. As Jules scrambled up the statue, using it as a series of uneven steps toward the fence top, the big SEAL gave him an additional boost, nearly throwing him up there. Jules went through the bougainvillea—“Thorns!”—and used the momentum to swing his legs up and over the structure.
“Fuck!” Sam responded to Jules’s warning as he all but launched himself up the stone statue and threw himself into the back-neighbor’s yard.
