“Mr. Bruebaker,” she chided, “I’m investigating the death of your daughter-”
“Really? It looked to me like you were investigating Ben Fortune’s tonsils.”
“Tell me what you know about his wife,” she offered, ignoring the insolence, “and I’ll tell you what I know about yours.”
It was a good bluff, and he bought it. She’d known he would be weak where Sheila was concerned, and felt a twinge of shame, to have obtained that information so amorally. “Olivia and I were friends,” he began. “Nothing more. She visited me one morning while Ben was out of town. In tears. Inconsolable.” He paused for a moment, as if disturbed by the memory of her distress. “She’d been angry with him, and gone with another man to get even. She regretted acting so impetuously, and wanted my advice.”
“Why yours?”
His mouth twisted with bitterness. “Sheila has…betrayed me a number of times, and I’ve always taken her back. Olivia wanted to know how to make it right. What to tell him.”
“What did you recommend?”
“I told her to confess to the affair,” he admitted. “Ben was a terrible husband and he needed a wakeup call.”
“Why did she say it was you she’d been with?”
He shrugged, not because he didn’t know, but because he was uncomfortable with the answer. “I’m…older. Not a match for him physically.”
“And the other man was?”
“I suppose so. Olivia was certain there would be bloodshed if she told Ben the truth.”
Sonny felt her stomach clench with apprehension. Ben wasn’t a fighter by nature, but neither was he a good candidate for the cuckold. She pictured his fierce expression this afternoon as he said he wanted to kill the man who’d hurt Olivia.
She didn’t doubt he would try, if given half a chance.
“You don’t know his name?” she asked.
“No. It was someone close to him, that’s all I know. She said Ben could never find out because it would destroy both relationships. Their marriage, and-”
“It couldn’t have been Nathan,” she thought aloud.
“Nathan?” Tom let out a humorless chuckle. “No. I believe it was a friend of Ben’s. A surfing buddy, if you will.”
Sonny’s blood ran cold. Sheila had used those exact same words this afternoon, after Tom had accused her of picking up a stranger on the beach. She’d said she could sleep with anyone she pleased, including Ben’s surfing buddies.
And who else could she have meant but his freewheeling, soul-surfing, lady-loving friend, JT Carver?
There was a noisy little dive within walking distance of America’s Cup Harbor, a popular local joint by the name of Fishbone.
Although he rarely ventured into the bar scene on his own, Stephen went there to waste a few hours of his time. The place was rustic, the mugs were frosty, and the microbrew was expensive. Fishermen were always welcome, even penny-ante dope dealers like him.
Stephen generally stayed away because of the women.
Not that he didn’t like them. He did, from a safe distance. In San Diego, a guy couldn’t turn around in a crowded place without bumping into some damned pretty ones. There were a couple of good-looking girls sitting next to him at the bar right now.
They scared the hell out of him.
He wasn’t sure why, but women tended to approach him when he went out. Maybe because he kept to himself and didn’t try to hit on them or act clever. He knew better than to think he could impress anyone.
There was a guy across the bar who had been employing the opposite tactic. He was witty and charming in that modest way everyone liked.
The guy must have said something funny, because the small crowd of ladies he’d been chatting up burst into another round of giggles.
Stephen didn’t understand how the guy did it; but then, he didn’t know much about women. He’d lived with Rhoda for the past three years and never come close to solving any of her screwed-up emotional equations. This morning, when he’d gone to retrieve his belongings at the duplex, she’d been totally off the wall. He told her he’d paid the rent for January but wouldn’t be back, and she’d come at him with teeth and claws.
Christ, it had ended badly. Had he expected it to go any other way?
Now he was a free agent, alone in a bar for the first time since turning twenty-one a year and a half ago. Any red-blooded man in his situation would be interested in talking to either of the two girls next to him. They had already introduced themselves and seemed…friendly.
He stifled the urge to flee.
Instead, he lifted his mug and drank deep. He wished he could think about his mom without being blindsided by guilt and shame and sadness, but he couldn’t. The beer helped. A little dope would have done better.
Stephen knew he was weak. James had always been the strong one. And the smart one, and the handsome one. His little brother was going to be somebody. Now that their parents were gone, Stephen’s sole purpose in life was to make sure James succeeded.
So while he waited for
Then it finally hit him. He knew the guy. Damn, drugs had messed up his head. Sometimes he felt as though he’d been walking around in a fog for the past few years.
The guy across the bar was JT Carver. Stephen didn’t remember meeting him, and wasn’t sure how he knew his name. Maybe he’d sold pot to him a couple of times. By the looks of the dancing bears on the front of his T-shirt, he was still a stoner.
What Stephen did recall, very clearly, was that JT was a surfer. And a john.
Unless he was mistaken, at one time or another, he’d seen JT Carver out on the beach at night, trolling for whores.
Stephen hunched over a little more, not wishing to be recognized. He didn’t know why, but JT struck him as a cagey bastard. Stephen had grown up cautious, always hiding out and dodging blows, so it was second nature for him to avoid shady characters.
After spending his formative years under the rule of Arlen Matthews, Stephen knew a dangerous man when he saw one.
“We’re staying at the Sheraton,” the girl sitting next to him said. She was blond and petite and a lot curvier than Rhoda, which he liked.
“That’s nice,” he said. He’d never been in a motel room in his life.
A crease formed between her brows, and he realized that he was supposed to read something more into her comment.
“Do you have any friends around here?” she asked.
“No.”
She giggled, exchanging a glace with the other girl, who wasn’t quite as pretty as the first one was, and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Well, if you want to come along with us, we’re heading over there.”
He looked back and forth between them. “To do what?”
She giggled again, whispered something in her friend’s ear, and they both dissolved in laughter. “To hang out,” she explained. “You know. Party.”
“I don’t have any pot,” he said, figuring that was what they were after.
“We do,” she replied with a smile.
A shiver of awareness passed through his body. Were they inviting him back to their motel room for…? Good God.
Across the bar, JT Carver was paying his tab, preparing to leave.
“Sorry,” he muttered, rising to his feet. “I have something else to do.”
