“I won’t. And I have my father’s pistol.”
Taylor’s heart sank.
“Right. But you don’t want to pull a weapon unless you’re prepared to use it.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll use it,” Ashe said. “When the time comes.”
It took Taylor all morning and part of the afternoon to locate Mike Zamarion.
He finally tracked him down through his former parole officer from a youthful felony assault and battery conviction, which led to the parents of Anne Zamarion, which led finally to Anne herself.
“Who are you?” Anne questioned when Taylor finally managed to get through to her at the North Hollywood art supply store she managed.
“My name’s Taylor MacAllister. I’ve been hired by Ashe Dekker to see if some agreement can’t be reached with Mike over the house on Foothill Road in Carpinteria.”
“What agreement?” demanded Anne.
“That’s what I’d like to figure out. It’s better for everyone if this can be resolved without the expense and stress of a court case, don’t you think?”
Silence on the other end.
“What did you say your name was?” Anne asked.
“Taylor MacAllister. My company was hired by Ashe to see if some compromise can’t be worked out.”
“Taylor…MacAllister?”
“That’s right.”
“I’ll have Mike call you back.” She disconnected.
Taylor was doubtful about ever hearing voluntarily from Mike, but about an hour later, as he was sitting in a North Hollywood Starbucks, drinking coffee, watching the rain bounce off the green umbrellas on the small patio, and wondering if there was any other fucking Christmas song besides Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas is You,” his phone rang.
The profile of Unknown Caller popped up.
“MacAllister.”
A raspy voice said, “This is Mike Zamarion. I hear you’re trying to find me.”
“I am,” Taylor said. “Can we meet?”
“Not so fast. What is it you want?”
“Just to talk. Ashe hired me to see if there was maybe a friendly way to resolve this situation.”
Zamarion laughed. There was a lot of ambient noise in the background, like he was on a cell phone while driving. “I doubt that!”
“What is it you doubt?”
“A peaceful resolution.”
Taylor asked patiently, “Why’s that?”
“Because your boyfriend is a fucking sociopath, in case you didn’t know it.”
Taylor didn’t answer. He’d had a number of enlightening phone conversations that day. Zamarion’s former parole officer actually thought pretty highly of him. She believed that Zamarion was a victim of environment, bad temper, and bad luck. He was apparently, among other things, a talented artist, and had things gone a different way, could have had a very different life.
Which kind of went without saying.
Anne Zamarion’s parents also seemed to believe that, despite a fondness for booze and broads (Taylor’s words, not theirs), Mike was a good-hearted, talented guy that Fate just seemed to have it in for. They believed Mike’s manslaughter conviction was a great injustice.
Taylor, liking to know who and what he was dealing with, had read the court case, and wasn’t convinced. He thought Zamarion was probably smarter than the average bear, but also probably more prone to violence.
Zamarion said, “He destroyed that will, you know. Alice wanted me and the girls to have the house. He didn’t care until he ran out of money. He sure as hell never cared about Alice.”
“Families are complicated.” Taylor had good reason to know.
Zamarion snorted. “Greed isn’t. He wants what he wants, and he doesn’t care who he has to hurt to get it. Which you—” He broke off.
“Okay. How do we resolve this? Because let’s be honest. You’re not going to get that house. You can make life difficult for Ashe, and maybe that’s your goal, but you strike me as a practical guy. Maybe we can reach some arrangement which actually brings benefit to you and your family.”
Zamarion began to laugh. It was kind of unnerving. “Are you for real?”
“Yes.”
“You really don’t have a fucking clue, do you?”
“Suppose you fill me in?”
“Not a fucking clue.”
Taylor opened his mouth, but he was suddenly aware that he didn’t have a fucking clue. Something was going on here that he didn’t understand.
The windy silence between them stretched, and then, startlingly, Zamarion hung up.
“What the hell?” Taylor stared at his phone.
He thumbed through his Recents, found Unknown Caller, and tried phoning back. The cell rang and rang.
Nobody home.
He thought about calling Will—that was his default—but Will had enough on his plate today. No point rubbing in the fact that the partner who should have been sharing the drudgery of that survey was busy wasting time they didn’t have.
He thought about ordering a sandwich to-go, wondered what the hell he should get Will for Christmas, considered his quickly dwindling options for getting hold of Mike Zamarion.
His cell rang. Unknown Caller was back.
“Bad connection?” Taylor asked.
“You have no idea.” Zamarion’s voice dipped.
“What?”
“If you want to know what’s really going on, bring twenty grand in cash to lifeguard tower eleven on Carpinteria State Beach. If you’re not there by seven o’clock, don’t bother showing up at all. This is your one and only chance.”
“You’re dream—”
Zamarion disconnected again.
“Shit.” Taylor glared at his cell screen and saw that while he had been speaking to Zamarion, Ashe had phoned.
He muttered his exasperation, checked his messages.
Ashe’s recorded voice sounded contrite. “Hi, Taylor. I should never have involved you in this. Can we just forget the whole thing? Don’t try to contact Zamarion. It’s not worth it. I don’t want to live with knowing something happened to you because of me.” He gulped audibly. “Let’s just… Consider yourself fired, okay? And…why don’t you come by for a drink tonight. For old times’ sake. Say seven o’clock?”
Taylor groaned. Behind the long counter, the baristas eyed him doubtfully. Taylor put his hand up in a don’t-mind-me gesture, and phoned Will.
Whereupon his day went from bad to worse.
Lunch with David Bradley? Seriously?
Not that Will was lying. Will did not lie. Even when it might have made life easier for both of them. But of all the fucking gin joints in all the fucking world, did he really have to walk into a restaurant where goddamned Lt. Commander David
