“Perfect,” Sam said. “Still notit.”
Jules laughed as the door opened with a chain lock securely fastened—this Emily was no fool.
“Hi, I’m Bob Franklin and this is Trent Ramrod,” Jules said. He didn’t have to glance at Sam to note his amused disgust at his assigned fake name, but it did make his own pleasant smile more genuine, which always helped. “We’re working for the estate of TV producer Milton Devonshire. They hired us to find an Emily Johnson that he mentions in his will—are you Emily?”
The slice of woman that he could see through the open few inches of door was in her sixties and enormously suspicious.
“Seriously?” she said. “Do people actually open their door for that shit?”
Sam was looking at him with the same question in his eyes.
“Well, we’re just starting our search, so I’ll let you know how it goes,” Jules said. “Here’s the deal—we want to find Emily fast. She stands to inherit a rather large sum of money.There’s a sealed document that includes her social security number—”Stretching the truth?He could read Sam’s mind and yeah, okay, that was a giant screaming lie, but it would keep people honest, he hoped “—but it’s gonna be months before the court unseals that info, so we’re looking for her the old-fashioned, gumshoe way. It’s inconvenient and awkward, and I deeply apologize for disturbing you, ma’am, but if youareour Emily Johnson—if you knew Milton Devonshire, maybe even back when you were a child—we all win if you give his lawyer a call.” He was carrying a small stack of business cards with Harper’s phone number on them and he held one out, now.
“And what,” their suspicious Emily said, pointedly not reaching out to take the card. “I just need to send this lawyer a thousand bucks of my own money to unlock the million dollar prize?”
“Absolutely not,” Jules said, again adding, “But if you are Emily, and you knew Milt Devonshire?—”
“I didn’t,” she said. “Never heard of him. Go away or I’ll call the police.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Jules said. “I’m sorry for—” She closed the door somewhat forcefully. “Disturbing you.” He turned to Sam and exhaled hard. “Well now.”
“Doesn’t know DM,” Sam read aloud as he wrote the words on their abbreviated list with the cheap, blue ball-point pen he always carried in the back pocket of his jeans. “That’s short for Dead Milt.”
“I figured as much,” Jules said.
“You were brilliant,” Sam said. “I’m in awe.”
“Thank you. Thank you very much.” Jules rolled his eyes as he pushed past him to head back down the driveway toward the street. “Tip your waitress, I’ll be here all week.” This wasn’t easy without an FBI badge to flash.Shit.
“One down, three million and six to go,” Sam mused as he followed. “Is it time for lunch yet,Bob?”
Palm Springs, California
Emily woke up to find Mick out on the balcony, on the phone, his voice low.
Not only had traffic been terrible last night, but his car’s check engine warning light had come on during the traffic-filled drive—which was something that Mick, appropriately, took very seriously. Before he’d even called Emily to tell her about it, he’d found an auto repair shop out near the airport where the harried service department receptionist said he could try to squeeze Mick in. He’d dropped the car off and took an Uber to the hotel.
He’d arrived long after dinner, looking haggard and worried—it had been a grueling day for him, ending with that unexpected issue with his car. He didn’t go into detail about his meeting, merely stating that there were some ongoing technical issues with the film project he was working on. Which was pretty standard in his business. Whenweren’tthere tech issues?
Still, despite the fact that Mick was clearly exhausted—unlike Emily, he hadn’t napped in the afternoon—he’d pulled her out onto the balcony to watch the fireworks that lit up the sky to the east, celebrating what, they didn’t know. But there wasalwayssomething to celebrate in Palm Springs.
The desert air was fresh and cool so Emily had gratefully pulled on her favorite fleece. She sat toboggan-style with Mick on a lounge chair, between his legs, leaning backagainst his chest with his arms around her, just watching the show.
“This is nice,” he said, his voice warm in her ear. “I’m really glad to be here—and, honestly? The car trouble means I can’t go swooping back for any other emergency that comes up so I’m kinda glad for that, too.”
Emily had to laugh. It was typical Mick—making lemonade from lemons.
“’Fess up,” he added, “since I wasn’t here to stop you, you wandered onto social media, am I right?”
“Busted,” she admitted. “It wasn’t terrible, though. I think there’s so much awfulness going on right now, Devonshire’s death hasn’t made very much news. Although you know what was weird? Or more weird, it’s all weird, but I was actually a little bit mad. You know, that none of his obits mentioned my mom’s death. Like, she’s so fifteen-years-ago. Who cares anymore?”
“I care,” he murmured.
“But I’m over it,” she told him. “The being mad, I mean. Carlotta’s not. I spoke to her today—just briefly.”
“Carlotta’s never not mad,” he pointed out, and she laughed because he was not wrong about that.
“Did you... Did you ever meet them?” Mick asked, his voice quiet in the relative stillness after the fireworks finale. “The Devonshires, father... or son?” It was the first time he’d ever asked her about them, and he immediately backpedaled. “I know you don’t like talking about them, so if you don’t want to...”
