Into the Fire(12)
His grandmother edged forward. Dementia had made her fragmented and erratic, though she’d been none too pleasant before. She jabbed a crooked finger at him, her mottled face twisted. “It should’ve been you.”
The words arrowed straight through him—clean entry, clean exit—leaving him winded. Once again his stare found his father, but Terry just took another swig of beer and looked away. Pouches had risen beneath his eyes, where emotion gathered for his dad and where it stopped.
Michelle said, “Fuck you, Grandma.”
A few gasps. The ring of keen silence. The boys glanced at each other, suppressing grins. Only Grandma looked unfazed, picking at the edge of an empanada on her plate.
“It’s okay, Michelle,” Max said. “Show Nona respect.”
Terry squeezed Ross’s and Terel’s necks, steering them toward the kitchen. “C’mon, boys. You don’t need to see this.”
The door flapped, and then silence reasserted itself once more.
One of the neighbors cleared his throat. “Perhaps you should go.”
Max nodded. As he turned for the door, the envelope crinkled in his pocket. Feeling it dig into his thigh, he hesitated.
The others were already drifting back into the kitchen, but he called after Michelle. “Do you mind if I just clean this up a little before I go?” He touched his cheek.
“Of course, Uncle Max.” She pointed to the hall opposite the one her mom had vanished down. “Third door on the left.”
He started up the tile corridor for the powder room, glancing through the open doorways on either side as he passed. Guest room. Library. And then—as he vaguely remembered—Grant’s office.
He ducked in, his shoes sinking into the plush carpet, and scanned the oak furnishings. A laptop was open on the leather blotter, family photos bouncing around on a screen saver. Max nudged the mouse pad, and the desktop came up.
He hovered the cursor over Contacts and clicked.
The “A” surnames sprang up first, important city officials and heads of industry, personal numbers and addresses listed alongside their work info. In the Notes section, Grant or his assistant had even typed in the names of spouses and children.
Holding his breath, Max scrolled down the alphabet, searching for Lorraine Lennox. Sure enough, there was her card, featuring the phone number at the Los Angeles Times he’d been calling. Her office address was listed and there—bingo—a cell number and home address as well.
Max had hoped for as much. That given whatever explosive information was at stake, Grant and Lennox had worked out unofficial channels of communication.
The sound of movement deep in the house straightened Max’s spine. Several sets of footsteps tapped into the foyer, voices carrying up the hall.
Max jotted down Lennox’s info on a pad featuring the Merriweather Accountancy logo, tore off the sheet, and crossed to the doorway. Peering out, he saw Michelle edge into view, seeing the neighbors out. Her gaze swept in his direction, and he jerked back out of sight.
When he heard the front door close, he swung out into the hall and walked toward the foyer.
Michelle turned as he neared. “I’m sorry. Like I said, she’s out of her head right now.”
Max said, “How could she not be?”
Michelle gave a sad smile. She caught him noticing her belly again, took his hand, and moved to rest it on her bump. He pulled his hand back more sharply than he intended, an instinctive recoil he instantly regretted. “Shit. I’m sorry.”
“I get it,” she said. “Just … don’t be a stranger. You’re the only one in this family I actually like.”
He felt his breath tangle in his throat. He blinked hard and turned quickly away.
She shut the door behind him, ratcheting out the bright light of the foyer. He stepped off the porch, enfolded by the darkness, with an address in his pocket and little else.
7
Like Torn Rubber
Lorraine Lennox lived in an Elysian Park bungalow at the lip of a canyon fold, a loud street in a neighborhood lively with music and front-yard barbecues. In the distance the stadium was uplit for a concert, the grandstand glowing Dodger blue.
Standing on the cracked doorstep, Max double-checked the address. After calling Lennox’s cell a handful of times and getting dumped into voice mail, he’d worked up his courage and driven over.
He rang the doorbell, waited, rang it again.
A clacking drew his attention to the side of the house. A gate, loose in the breeze. He walked over to it.
The latch slapped against the catch nervously. Through the fence he could hear people talking in the backyard.
A shift in the wind sent the Boss’s gravelly voice rolling across Chavez Ravine, blasting from the stadium speakers: Everybody’s got a secret, Sonny …
Max knuckled the gate open. “Hello?”
He drifted up the alley, blading past recycling bins.
“Hi, there! I’m not a robber! I’m just Grant Merriweather’s cousin.”
He emerged onto the square of browning grass that passed for a backyard. A few lawn chairs with tattered straps were arrayed around a fire pit.
Empty.
Gas flames leapt through the lava rocks, a reverse waterfall of orange and pale blue. The rear sliding-glass door had been laid open, and he realized now that the voices he’d heard weren’t voices at all but a too-loud television blaring from the living room.