The razor-sharp edge between Before and After. That’s what haunted Will.
That split second between the moment when all options were still on the table, when there were still infinite possibilities as to how it could all play out, and the moment when the choice was made and consequences rolled out with the inevitability of high tide.
He hadn’t seen it coming. That was part of it. He’d been blindsided.
And the thing was, it had started out as a perfectly ordinary evening. No indication of what lay ahead. In fact, the ordinariness of it was what made it perfect.
“Why don’t we celebrate?” he’d said.
Not quite five o’clock, it was nearly dark as they crossed the wooden bridge. The damp twilight smelled of car exhaust, Mexican food, and maybe, distantly, the ocean. Colorful lights blinked and twinkled in the ragged black silhouettes of the surrounding trees. In the manmade hollow beside the Spanish-style strip mall, the miniature golf course was decorated for the holidays with fake snow and leafy garland. It looked like Santa’s Village. Quaint, cute, commercialized.
Will didn’t mind. He sort of liked the holidays, even if they typically worked straight through them. People tended to be in a better mood around the holidays, and people in better moods were a good thing in their line of work. Less bullets. More bonuses.
Taylor answered, “Sure. What did you have in mind?”
“A couple of steaks. A couple of drinks. An early night.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.
Taylor’s “Okay” was said absently. He probably couldn’t have read Will’s expression in the dusk anyway, but he was no longer looking at Will. He was staring ahead at their office, the last space in the mall, where a blond man in a leather jacket was exiting through a glass door that read American Eagle.
“He changed his mind,” Will commented, following Taylor’s gaze. “He doesn’t want to know she’s cheating.”
Taylor made a dismissive sound. They didn’t do cheating spouses. They weren’t PIs. They were security consultants, and as of this afternoon’s successful landing of the Webster Fidelity account, they were moving into the big leagues just like they’d been talking about since they’d left the Diplomatic Security Service to strike out on their own three months earlier.
The man in the leather jacket hesitated for a moment, aimlessly jingling the keys in his pockets, and then started toward the bridge. Technically, there was parking in the mall, but the hair salon at the opposite end guaranteed that there was rarely any available space. Will and Taylor always parked on the street.
Anyway, it was just as well this guy was bailing. Securing the Webster account solidified the fact that they were understaffed. Not as understaffed as they had been two weeks earlier when Will had persuaded Euphonia Jones to quit her job at the DMV and come work for them. But for the first time ever, they did not need another client.
As though reading his mind, Taylor said, “Maybe he’s dropping off his résumé.”
Probably not. Nothing about that slender, slightly aimless figure gave off a law-enforcement vibe.
“So. Outback? Black Angus?” Will returned to more important matters. “Aloha Steakhouse?”
“Aloha,” Taylor said. No surprise there. He did not like chain restaurants. Well, and after Paris, neither did Will.
The blond man had reached the head of the bridge and was starting toward them. His aftershave, a distinctive and disagreeable blend of musk and patchouli—what was that? Obsession?—reached them first. Taylor checked mid-stride.
The man also seemed to lose step and waver, peering forward as though trying to see through the gloom. He said doubtfully, “Taylor?”
And in a voice Will had never heard out of him before, Taylor said, “Ashe?”
He sounded—well, the cliché would be he sounded like he’d seen a ghost. But actually, he sounded like he was a ghost. The ghost of his former younger self. Taylor’s husky voice sounded lighter and uncertain, and there was just the suggestion of a boyish crack. It startled Will.
Taylor and Ashe strode toward each other, and hugged—or rather, half hugged, half collided—before stepping back to have a look at each other. Or at least as good a look as they could get in the wavering shadows of the Christmas lights.
“Taylor. It is you,” Ashe said. “I was thinking it couldn’t be. That it had to be some other Taylor MacAllister.”
“Jesus. How long has it been? What are you doing here?” Taylor was already turning to Will, making the introductions. “Will, this is Ashe Dekker. Ashe is an old friend of mine.”
Will shook Dekker’s hand. “Nice to meet you.” There wasn’t much he could add to that because until that moment, he’d never heard of Ashe Dekker.
Taylor was still talking. “Ashe, meet Will Brandt. Will’s my partner. We worked together at DS.”
“Sure,” Dekker said. “How’re you doing, Will?” His grip was firm, though his hand was ice cold.
“Great.” Will studied Dekker curiously—and felt his interest returned.
Dekker was a good-looking guy. Average height, slim, with carefully groomed stubble and the kind of shaggy haircut that actually costs a fortune. His clothes were casual and expensive: designer jeans, leather jacket, alligator skin Western boots. Will didn’t think much of guys who wore cowboy boots as a fashion statement, but he was willing to make an exception for a pal of Taylor’s.
“Taylor and I were at UCLA together,” Dekker said.
“Right,” Will said. So this was a very old friend, predating any of Taylor’s other old friends—not that Will had met so many of them, and not that Taylor had so many of them. “What brings you to our neck of the woods?”
Dekker gave a self-conscious laugh. “To be honest, I was hoping to hire you. Hire American Eagle, that is.”
Taylor said, “You need security consulting services?”
“I’m not exactly sure what I need,” Dekker said. “But I think someone’s trying to kill me.”
Euphonia was locking the front door when they arrived at the office, Ashe Dekker in tow.
“That’s okay, we’ll lock up,” Will told her.
“The painters are coming at eight. I was going to run home, have dinner, and come back.” Euphonia—Nee to her friends—was a petite black woman with a mop of bronze-gold curls and wide brown eyes. For years she had been their go-to girl at the DMV, so it had been a surprise, when they finally met in person, to discover she really was a girl. She was only in her twenties.
Regardless, she was a paragon of efficiency and ingenuity, and within the first week they had promoted her from receptionist to office manager. Not that that meant a whole hell of a lot, given there were only the three of them employed at American Eagle.
“They’ve got an access code,” Will said. “You don’t need to drive out here again.”
Euphonia smiled the smile of a woman who was going to do exactly what she thought best. She glanced past Will, spotted Dekker, and said in surprise, “Oh, you changed your mind?”
Dekker grimaced. “Yeah. Sorry for being so mysterious.” He said to Taylor, “I was here earlier. I, er, declined to fill out any paperwork.”
“That’s okay. Let’s hear your story first,” Taylor said.
“Thanks, Nee. Is your car on the street?” Will asked Euphonia.
She sighed. “No, Agent Brandt. My vehicle is located in the lot as ordered.”
“Good. And we’re not feds anymore.”
“Uh-huh. You can take a boy out of the agency, but can you take agency out of a boy?”
They were still trying to come up with an answer to that as Euphonia swept out into the damp night, the brisk click of her heels fading quickly.
“She’s been waiting to use that line on us,” Taylor commented, resting his hip on the edge of Euphonia’s terrifyingly neat desk.
“I know.” Will ripped the plastic off one of the waiting room’s two brand-new chairs, saying to Dekker, “Have a seat, Ashe.”
“I’m sure I freaked her out,” Dekker confessed, taking the chair Will indicated. “I couldn’t stop pacing up and down.”
“She used to work for the DMV. She’s freak-proof.” Taylor absently picked up a paperweight shaped like a crumpled 1040 application, raised his brows, and replaced it.
Dekker watched him. In fact, Dekker seemed to have trouble taking his eyes off Taylor. Not that Will blamed him. With his black hair, burnished green eyes, and elegant bone structure Taylor was probably Will’s favorite thing to look at.
Maybe Dekker was comparing the college kid with the man. Maybe he was wondering about that striking single strand of silver in Taylor’s hair—a souvenir of his shooting almost two years ago now. Maybe he was looking at the wedding ring on Taylor’s left hand and wondering exactly what “partner” meant.
If it was the last, good, because Taylor was definitely off-limits to Ashe Dekker.
Now that he could see Dekker in the light, Will reconsidered his original impression. The guy was attractive, true. He had that kind of bad-boy sexy vibe that Will found annoying, but that appealed to some people—Taylor maybe? His features were a little too sharp, his eyes a little too narrow, his mouth a little too thin. He looked quite a bit older than Taylor, but that could be because he was also—appeared to Will, anyway—a drinker. That slight puffiness around his pale blue eyes, the tiny broken capillaries on the tip of his otherwise perfect nose? Taylor’s dad was a drinker, so alcohol abuse was not a trait he found endearing. Although everybody had their exceptions to the rule.
It was hard picturing this guy being close to Taylor. Close enough that a decade later he felt he could call on him when he was in trouble.
Maybe that was more about Taylor than their friendship, because one thing about MacAllister: he was loyal. He was also not what you’d call a naturally gregarious guy. He had friends, of course, a few good men, as the saying went. And for the most part, those were relationships that stretched back years.
Will tuned back in to hear Dekker saying, “I’ve been living in Europe a while now. Anyway, after my mother passed, I came back to sell the beach house and found a bunch of squatters had moved in.”
“Squatters,” Will repeated, glancing automatically at Taylor.
“Right. They call themselves a family, but if they are, it’s more like the Mansons than the Brady Bunch.”
Squatters? That was the threat? That was what had driven Dekker to reach across time and tap Taylor? Will couldn’t help thinking it was kind of a flimsy excuse. Or were they now supposed to be in the trash removal business?
“What did you do?” Taylor’s attention was still focused on Dekker.
“I went through all the legal steps. Posted a three-day notice, filed an unlawful detainer, made sure they were served—”
“Made sure who was served?” Taylor interrupted. He was not the stickler for details Will was, but he liked his facts straight.
“A guy by the name of Mike Zamarion seemed to be the head man. His was the name I used for the lawsuit. He never responded, so I got a default judgment.”
“This has been going on for a while, I take it?” Will asked.
“It’s been going on for about six months.”
Will nodded.
Taylor said, “Then what happened?”
“I took that judgment to the sheriff’s department, but when the deputies went out to the beach house, everyone was gone. Their stuff was still there, though, so I figured they were hanging around, watching the place, waiting for a chance to come back.”
“Probably,” Will said. He was starting to wonder why Dekker had had second thoughts about asking for their help. Since he didn’t seem to realize this was not the kind of service they provided, it couldn’t be that. But he had changed his mind about hiring them. He had been in the process of leaving their office without giving Euphonia his contact info. If the traffic had been just a little worse, they’d have missed him and that would have been that.
Of all the nights for smooth sailing on the 101.
“The deputies went ahead and changed the locks, although I guess technically, they were only supposed to post a five-day notice. If you can believe that bullshit. I hired a company to clean out the place—which the assholes had trashed—and to dump their junk.”
“Ah.” Taylor glanced at Will. “Problematical.”
“Yep.”
In California, the laws concerning squatters vs. trespassers were a little more complicated than in some other parts of the country. Trespassing was a criminal charge and much simpler to resolve, whereas, depending on a variety of factors, squatters actually had rights and protections. Even after a formal eviction, dumping or destroying a squatter’s belongings could lead to legal problems for the property owner.
Plus, it was a shitty thing to do.
Granted, so was squatting in most cases.
“Well, I know that now,” Dekker agreed, “because Zamarion came back demanding I hand over their personal property, and when I told them everything had been carted to the dump, they threatened to burn down the house, which they tried to do a week later.”
“Are you sure—” Taylor was, by nature, a skeptic. It was one of the things Will liked about him.
“I’m sure,” Dekker said with finality. “According to the fire department, it looked like arson.”
This was getting better and better.
“Sounds to me like a case for the sheriff’s department,” Will said. Maybe working in conjunction with the fire department investigators. Maybe not. Looked like arson wasn’t exactly conclusive. What none of this sounded like was a case for a global security consulting firm.
Taylor directed an unreadable look his way.
Dekker said, “That’s what I thought too. Except the sheriff’s department says there’s nothing they can do. Even after someone ran me off the road a couple of nights ago.”
“Wait a minute. Back up.” That was Taylor. “You went to the sheriff’s department with an arson report? And told them about threats made by—”
“Zamarion. Like I said, he’s the ringleader. He claimed he’d been paying property taxes for the past two years and had a legal right to the house. He said he hadn’t received the eviction notice and that it had been illegal to change the locks and dump their belongings.”
Which, if this Zamarion guy was telling the truth, was correct.
Will said, “Ashe, I know you’re not going to want to hear it, but this is a civil matter, not a criminal one.”
That time the look Taylor threw him was one of impatience. But Will was just telling it like it was. Clearly, the sheriffs weren’t impressed by the arson report, assuming there had been one. This whole thing was a mess and a matter for the courts. It sure as hell wasn’t something they needed to be involved in—although if someone really had tried to kill Dekker…
“Did Zamarion pay the property taxes?” Taylor questioned.
“Yes, but so did I. The way it works, his payments were applied to future bills, but there won’t be any future bills because I always pay my taxes. The fact that he’s paid toward the property taxes complicates my selling the house. It’s the craziest situation.”
“You said Zamarion made threats,” Will said. “What kind of threats exactly?”
“The kind you take seriously.” Dekker’s blue eyes grew glittery with emotion. “He came to the house and told me, in front of witnesses, he’d see me dead before he’d let me force him and his so-called family out.”
“That’s a criminal threat. If he made it in front of witnesses, you can—”
“Take him to court?” Dekker’s laugh was bitter. “Sure. If the sheriffs can find him. He’s a transient. He doesn’t have a legal residence. He’s using my house as his mailing address. And if I can persuade the painters to testify—that’s another big if right there since their own legal status is questionable. In the meantime, Zamarion is going to keep on trying to kill me.”
Taylor chewed his lip, said, “Do you have proof that the person who tried to run you off the road was Zamarion?”
“You mean like a convenient snapshot of the license plate number? Hell no! I nearly went off a cliff. There wasn’t time to grab my cell phone and start snapping photos!”
“Okay.” Taylor was calm, his voice neutral. “How are you so sure Zamarion was the other driver?”
“Of course he was! Who else? He had just threatened to kill me the day before! That’s not a coincidence.”
Taylor opened his mouth, but Will cut in. “MacAllister. Can I have a word?”
“Sure.” Taylor’s tone was easy, but the look he gave Will was direct and uncompromising. Clearly, his mind was already made up.
Well, he could just unmake it.
They went through the reception area door, crossed the hall, navigating ladders and cans of paint, and stepped into the boudoir-pink room that would ultimately be Will’s office. Their building space had previously belonged to a bridal shop, and the walls were painted in delicate shades of peach and pink. Pastel wallpaper borders featured parasols (why parasols?) and wedding cakes and lovebirds nibbling gold bands. None of which projected the appropriate YOUR SAFETY IS IN OUR HANDS! vibe—or even, in Will’s view, a reassuring preview of marriage.
They were hoping to have the renovations finished before the end of the year, but the holidays turned out to be an unexpectedly busy time for contractors. Most of the work at American Eagle was having to be done after-hours—and at a premium price.
Will closed the door to his office. He kept his voice low. “Okay, listen. Dekker is a friend, and I understand that you want to help him, but this is clearly a case for the sheriffs.”
“Sure,” Taylor replied. “That doesn’t mean we can’t take a look around, ask a few questions.”
Will didn’t trust that reasonable tone. “Yes. If that’s all you’re talking about. Because we’ve got to be realistic. You know as well as I do, we’re not in a position to take on another client.”
Taylor shrugged dismissively. “If you don’t want to take Ashe on as a client, that’s okay with me. I wasn’t planning on billing him. I’ll handle this as a favor. In my spare time.”
This was exactly what Will had feared. Taylor had not only already made his mind up, he was busily working out the details before they could even finish identifying what those details might be.
He tried very hard to keep his exasperation from showing. “What spare time? You don’t have spare time. Neither of us do.”
“What’s your point, Will?” Taylor rested his hand on his canted hip, and studied him with cool, green eyes.
That—in fairness, unconsciously—cocky posture, that skeptical really? stare, were the reason so many people longed to punch Taylor five seconds after meeting him. It wasn’t really who Taylor was. Or rather, yeah, the confidence, the cynicism, were facets of his personality, but not the main facets, and not traits he typically turned on Will.
Obviously, this was a unique case, and Will needed to respect that. Which he was trying to do.
He said, “All I’m saying is, doesn’t it make more sense—isn’t it better for all of us—if we direct Dekker back to the sheriff’s department? And if you don’t feel like that’s enough, we can refer him to another—”
Taylor cut him off. “Uh-uh. We’re not referring him anywhere. Ashe came to me.”
“I know that. That’s why I’m saying—”
“I gave Ashe my word that if he ever needed help, I’d be there. I didn’t say, if you ever need help, I can refer you to someone. I promised I’d be there for him.”
“I get that.” Will did. It would be unreasonable to be irritated with Taylor for making those kinds of promises years before they’d ever met. He wasn’t irritated, and he definitely wasn’t jealous—he didn’t think—but Christ, Taylor could be so bullheaded.
“Do you?” There it was. That hint of cynical smile. “Because that’s not what I’m hearing.”
“What you’re hearing is me trying to work out what’s going to be best for all of us. We’re not bodyguards—”
“We’ve handled plenty of protection details, so don’t give me that. What’s your real beef?”
“My real beef is not two hours ago we landed the kind of job we’ve been hunting since we left the DS, and we both know we don’t actually have the manpower to carry it off.”
“So we’re going to be stretched thin. We should be used to that by now.”
“So, taking on another job—one that’s liable to be as time-consuming and distracting as this one sounds—is not smart.” He shook his head.
“It’ll take a day. Two at most.”
“You’re dreaming.”
“The hell. You think I can’t handle tracking down this Zamarion guy?”
“Of course I don’t think that. But come on, you know what this is going to be. Chasing smoke in the wind.”
“I know.”
“Then you admit it’s not an efficient use of our resources.”
Taylor opened his mouth, and Will added, “And while we’re on the topic of resources, I thought you were frantic to pay Richard back? Just this morning you said again how much you didn’t want to be in debt to him. Which is all the more reason not to take on a pro-bono gig that’s liable to jeopardize the first job we’ve had that might allow us to start paying off that debt.”
Everything Will was saying was true, so it was maddening to have Taylor keep looking at him with that skeptical expression like…what? What did think was really motivating Will?
“I see,” Taylor drawled. “If David Bradley came to us for help, you’d just give him the name of a good local firm and send him on his way?”
Will felt himself change color. “It’s not the same situation. David is—was—”
He stopped, realizing he was wading into quicksand.
Brows arched in pointed inquiry, Taylor said mildly, “David is—was—?”
“David is our friend—”
“He’s no friend of mine.”
“He’s not someone from my distant past asking for a favor. And anyway, I’d have to tell David the same thing I’m telling you now. We don’t have the resources to handle this.”
“Bullshit.”
Somehow the quietness of that was more jarring than if Taylor had shouted at him. “If David Fucking Bradley came through that door, asking for your help, you’d move heaven and earth to give it to him. We both know it. And guess what? I understand that. I even respect it. Which is why I expect you to understand and respect my position. I’m not asking you to put in extra hours. I’ll handle this on my own. And I’ll make damn sure that it doesn’t interfere with the Webster Fidelity job. Okay? Fair enough?”
No, it was not okay, it was not fair. It was foolish and impractical. But after Taylor invoked David’s name, what else could Will say? No way in hell could he risk arguing with Taylor about David, and clearly that’s where this conversation was headed.
Will said curtly, “Fair enough.”
Taylor nodded, yanked open the door, and they walked in silence back into the front office. They found Ashe scrutinizing a stack of framed photos. He looked up with an expression of hope mixed with wariness, and set aside a seven-year-old picture of Will accepting his marksmanship qualification badge.
“Okay,” Taylor told him. “We talked it over. We’re taking your case.”
“You are?” Ashe threw a quick, doubtful look at Will.
“Yes,” Will said.
Ashe still seemed unsure. “If this isn’t the kind of thing you do—”
“We do whatever needs doing,” Taylor said.
“It’s our company’s slogan,” Will said sardonically. “We’re going to get it printed on coffee mugs.”
Taylor gave him an unamused look before saying to Dekker, “Where are you staying?”
“The beach house. Carpinteria.”
“Okay, I’ll drive up first thing tomorrow and take a look around. You can fill me in on the rest of the story. We’ll start there and see where it leads us.”
“That’s… I don’t know what to say. Thank you,” Dekker said, with another of those slightly ill-at-ease glances at Will. “Thank you both.”
He did seem thankful. But Will couldn’t help thinking Dekker also seemed more scared than when he’d first walked into their office.
