“Thank you,” Will said, and he meant it sincerely. “I appreciate it.”
“Sure you do.”
Will glanced again at the Honda’s miniature reflection. Objects in mirror are closer than they appear. No lie.
He said slowly, “Stuart, do you do any freelancing?”
“Me?” Schwierskott sounded startled. “Uh, well, yeah. I could. Sure. Sure, I do.”
Will considered. He was taking a chance. Schwierskott was kind of a screw-up, and even if he wasn’t—even if Oregon had been a fluke—MacAllister was liable to lose his shit if he ever found out about this.
Schwierskott was saying quickly, eagerly, “You want me to follow up with Shey? I could take a run at her. I’d be—”
“No,” Will cut him off. “No, I’ll handle that angle. This is something else—and you’ll deal directly with me and only me. Got that? Don’t call the office. I’ll give you my personal cell number.”
“Okay, sure.” Schwierskott sounded less certain. “This isn’t some kind of shadow op, is it?”
Will managed not to hoot at the idea of bringing Schwierskott in on something like that. “No. This is not some kind of shadow op. This is a completely routine investigation. Rockford 101. But it’s potentially sensitive. It requires discretion.”
“My middle name,” Schwierskott assured him.
This was probably a mistake. He was probably going to regret it. He was definitely going to regret it if MacAllister ever learned of it.
Will ignored the little warning voice in the back of his head. He said, “I need a complete background check on a guy named Ashe Dekker.”
Chapter Four
He had forgotten the house until it rose out of the mist like something remembered from a dream.
Nestled among the avocado orchards in the Carpinteria foothills, the Mediterranean-style mansion offered endless blue ocean vistas and inspirational glimpses of sun-gilded mountains. Not the kind of place you expected to be overrun with squatters, although the library, exercise room, and master bedroom sauna must have made a nice change for them.
There was a tall iron gate at the bottom of the grapevine-covered hillside, but it was standing wide open when Taylor passed through just before eight o’clock.
He drove up to the wide empty courtyard, got out. Though he could see the ocean, the air felt dry and warm, winter sunlight edging everything in gold. Bees hummed industriously in the yucca and scarlet bougainvillea trailing down the stucco walls.
Taylor spotted Ashe sauntering down the wide, shallow, blue-tiled steps, red coffee mug in hand, and raised a hand in greeting.
Ashe wore some kind of embroidered white tunic shirt and something alarmingly like harem pants. “Morning!” he called.
Taylor called back, “Morning.”
“Still punctual as ever.” Ashe reached him, handed the mug to Taylor. “How was your drive?”
“Quick and easy. Thanks.” He eyed Ashe thoughtfully. Ashe’s blond hair was mussed, and there were gray shadows under his eyes. Rough night? Taylor raised the mug, sipped, and felt his eyebrows hit his skull. “Wow. What’s in there?”
“Tequila, Kahlua, coffee.” Ashe grinned. “Like we drank back in college.”
Taylor gave a short laugh. “Uh, yeah, I don’t really do Mexican coffee for breakfast these days.”
“Ah, come on. Live a little.” Ashe nodded toward the giant urns and columns. “Did you want to come inside? Or is this supposed to be strictly business?”
Huh?
“Sure. In a minute. Can I take a look at where the fire started?” Taylor took another swallow of Mexican coffee, decided better not, and followed Ashe, who was already striding down the drive toward the three-car garage.
“I take it there’s no live-in staff or caretaker now?”
“No.”
Taylor didn’t see any sign of security cameras or sensors. “What about a security system?”
“No. Mom didn’t like them. She believed the security company would use their cameras to spy on her.” Ashe grinned at Taylor, and Taylor grinned back because he remembered Ashe’s mother had been a character.
He also remembered that Ashe had been very close to his father, and that his father had died Ashe’s first year at UCLA. He remembered holding Ashe after he got the terrible news, and going to the funeral with him. Things he had not thought about in ages.
He said, “But the gates would have been locked?”
“I have no idea.” Ashe’s lip curled in scornful amusement. “You think you’re going to look for fingerprints or signs of a break-in two years later?”
“No. But just for my own information, I’d like to understand how they got access to the house. And how they managed to live here for two years without, apparently, raising any alarms.”
“Zamarion’s story was that my mother invited him to live here as a guest before she passed away.”
Okay. Not trespassing so much as a holdover tenant situation? That would definitely make it a case for the courts. At least this piece of it.
“Any possibility that’s true?” He couldn’t quite read Ashe’s expression.
Ashe stopped walking. “No. Zero. Mom was terrified of guys like Zamarion.”
“Guys like Zamarion?”
“Hippies.”
“Ah.” Taylor said, “Was Zamarion able to produce any kind of documentation to support his claim?”
“Of course not.” Ashe’s harsh laugh ricocheted off the pale stucco walls and brick. He glanced at Taylor’s coffee mug. “You’re not going to drink that, are you?”
“Better if I don’t.” Taylor smiled apologetically, handed the steaming mug to Ashe, who made a face, then took a swallow.
“Hair of the dog.” Ashe continued walking.
“Right.”
Ashe’s lashes flicked up. He smiled with his old charm. “Uh-oh. You’ve got your big brother face on.”
Taylor opened his mouth, but Ashe abruptly returned to the topic at hand. “Oh. Get this. Zamarion tried to claim Mom intended to leave the house to him.”
Taylor frowned. “Was there a will?”
Ashe flushed, said darkly, “There was a will!”
“What does that mean?”
“That the will disappeared by the time I got here.”
“Wouldn’t your mother’s lawyer have a copy?”
“No.”
“But—”
“You think I’m lying?” Ashe demanded. “That’s beautiful.”
“Hey, I’m just trying to get the facts straight. I’m on your side. But I can be of more help if I know exactly what we’re dealing with. So even if you have information that you think strengthens Zamarion’s
