“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 withbatshit 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 wordcorruptible. 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 MarinaSantana’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.
The black sharpie was right there on the table, so Jules picked it up and added info that he’d just obtained: The employment dates of the final three of the four different housekeepers—Cathy who he’d marked with a large number two, Paula number three, and the fourth and final housekeeper, Rene, whom they’d met at Devonshire Place. The OG housekeeper, Helen, AKA number one—her departure date was the same as the date of the old man’s stroke, so he made a note of that on Sam’s paper towel roll, too.
Just an hour ago, Jules had woken up with a gasp, heart pounding. As he’d scrambled to his feet, he at first had no clue where he was.
But Robin was right there, sitting on the floor near him, and Sam was sitting across from them in an easy chair, and it all clicked into place.
Rental house. Los Angeles. Finding Emily Johnson. Milt Devonshire the Junior changed his name to Mick O’Rourke after serving time for vehicular manslaughter. Gavin LaCrosse in a now undeniably suspiciously timed body bag. Car accident, gardens, birds and ashes...
“How long have I been asleep?” he’d asked digging for his phone to check the time. “Shit, I wanted to call the housekeepers again. I have so many questions after talking to Rene.”
“We can do all of that in the morning,” Sam interrupted. “It’s okay to take a night off.”
But it wasn’t even eight o’clock. Which wasn’t too late to make those calls.
Jules had gone upstairs, splashed water on his face, and called Paula, Cathy, and Helen—calling back again, several times each, for Paula and Cathy. He’d had more and more follow-up questions for them asthebatshit craziest idea in the known universe swirled and then started to gel in his head.
But right now he gestured down at Sam’s timeline. “This is really great,” he reiterated. “To be able to see it laid out like this...”
Sam had dug through the financial records and included the date that Gavin LaCrosse had first appeared on Devonshire’s personal payroll—it was just a few weeks after the hit-and-run. As was the date that LaCrosse had started producing and directing his own soon-to-fail projects. Hard to believe that was a coincidence.
“So, what’s batshit crazy?” Robin came over to see what Jules had added to the timeline.
Jules pointed to the dates he’d added for the four housekeepers. “I got into the weeds with the women,” he said, as Sam pushed himself to his feet and joined them at the table. “I asked for the exact dates they started and stopped working at Devonshire Place because... Well, a question that’s been bugging me is, why was the housekeeper turnover rate so high? And okay, it’s a hard job and the pay probably sucks, but when I asked, none of them left by choice. Well, Rene left because Devonshire died, but Helen, Cathy and Paula?Harper terminated their contracts—and gave them very generous severance packages—which raised even more questions.”
“Like what the fuck?” Sam suggested.
