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 late 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
