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  “Thank you for understanding, Miss Fredrickson. I don’t want to make trouble for you.”

  Billie couldn’t help wondering as she walked back to the house whether trouble had already been made. Was it a coincidence that Javier showed up about the same time that Handel had his accident? Stranger still – that they’d had a rash of vandalism since he’d been living on her property.

  She poured herself a cup of cold coffee and stuck it in the microwave for a few seconds. Her mother was already gone out. The garage was empty and the door left open when she walked by. She sat at the kitchen table and dialed Handel on her cell phone. He didn’t pick up after four rings and his answering service picked up.

  She left him a message. “Handel, when are you coming home? Did you decide to stay at the office and work a while? I spoke with Ernesto. He told me some things you might find interesting. I’ll talk to you when you get back. Love you. Bye.”

  •••••

  Handel felt the phone vibrate in his pocket. Probably Billie. He hoped she wouldn’t be too upset when she found out he’d left without her, but it would be tricky enough to get in and out of Hosea’s neighborhood intact without bringing his wife along. He flipped on the radio to pass the time.

  After the weather report, news turned to the trial. The talk radio host’s glib tone made Handel think he was announcing the release of a Hollywood movie, rather than a trial that would decide someone’s fate. “After a lengthy continuance, San Francisco’s high profile murder case, Kawasaki versus the State of California, resumes this Monday. Sloane Kawasaki’s lead defense, Handel Parker, was in critical condition after an accident on I80E early last month. He has since been released from the hospital and is reported to be doing well.”

  The host’s sidekick spoke up. “That’s one way to buy time to refute the state’s case.” Laughter.

  “Yeah, the hard way. But whether he can prove his client innocent is yet to be seen. For those of you who have been living under a rock, here’s what happened. Multi-millionaire owner of Sakitown Imports, Sloane Kawasaki, is on trial for murder in the death of his wife. She was found dead last September when police were sent to the Kawasaki residence due to an anonymous 911 call.”

  “Sounds like another way of saying, the bastard knocked his wife around then left the house and called from a payphone so no one would know he’d been home. Living in a house that big, so far from other neighbors, who’s gonna know?”

  “True. Unless the servants speak up, and they probably don’t speak English,” the host said dryly. “Or have green cards. But who needs’em? This is a sanctuary city after all!” They both laughed and the host continued his version of the news. “Mr. Kawasaki has maintained his innocence, pleading not guilty and in fact put up a one hundred thousand dollar reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the true killer.” He scoffed. “Might be kind of hard to find a witness in that neighborhood. They were probably all out playing golf at the country club.” The sidekick laughed along and they cut to a commercial.

  “Ha ha,” Handel murmured. He wished the media would quit trying the case in the court of public opinion so that he could do his job. At this point, even if Sloane were acquitted, the many who believed the pontificating of the media, bloggers, and/or anyone with an opinion, would still consider him guilty.

  After sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic for an extra half an hour because of an accident up ahead, Handel finally exited the freeway and made his way through the city, following GPS directions. He was soon in a part of town he’d always managed to circumvent in the past. Rundown buildings, barred windows, and tough looking characters hanging out on street corners were a few clues that he was not in the Valley anymore.

  At a stop sign he flipped on his turn signal and waited for an old pickup to make a left hand turn across from him. A group of young men lounged against the building to his right, eyeing him like a rabbit fallen into a den of wolves. One of the men stepped forward, pulling up faded, sagging jeans with one hand. “Yo, dude,” he said loud enough to be heard through the closed window. “You lookin’ fer something? I got what you need.” He pulled the edge of his shirt up and revealed little baggies taped to his stomach.

  Handel shook his head and turned the corner. He saw the man flip him off when he glanced in the rearview mirror. Two more blocks and he turned left, onto Bourbon Street. The houses were close set, peeling paint and broken shutters. Patches of dirt and chained Pitbulls claimed the area where grass should be. Two kids, not more than twelve or thirteen, sat on a front porch smoking.

  House numbers were nearly obsolete, but he managed to make out the faded outline of 19457 on the mailbox of a bright turquoise house in the middle of the block. There was no killer dog in sight but there was a warning sign on the front door that said, No Trespassing. Violators will be shot. Survivors will be shot again.

  He pulled along the curb and shut off the engine, looked around. The two boys were watching him cautiously from their stoop, necks craned. They were probably wondering if he was a cop or something. He should move quickly before Hosea realized he was here and snuck out the back before he had a chance to talk to him. Now was as good a time as any. “Relax. Deep breaths,” he told himself. He drew his gun from the holster, pulled open the door and stepped out. A dog yipped a couple doors down and he glanced that way. A tiny Chihuahua stared at him through the slats of a rickety wood fence, bulbous eyes glaring as though he thought he were a Doberman. But his bark was annoying rather than frightening, and Handel wished the thing would shut up.

  Holding the gun close to his side, he hurried up the crumbling blacktop driveway. An old, rusty, white, cargo van was parked there, the front passenger-side tire completely flat. He stepped over a pile of boards left stranded in the path and up to the front porch. He read the warning sign again and confidently gripped his gun, being careful to keep his finger off the trigger. He’d had plenty of hours of practice, but actually carrying a weapon and maybe having to use it in a real situation was much different than shooting at outlines of Osama Bin Laden at the firing range.

  He rapped at the door, half expecting a large dog to announce his presence by lunging at him from the inside, but there was no sound. Nothing. Maybe Hosea wasn’t home. He banged harder. There was a doorbell, but it was dangling from the wall on the end of exposed wires, as though someone had gotten angry at the sound and ripped it off.

  Handel slipped his gun in the holster and cupped his hands to look in the front window. There was a curtain covering most of it, but a small opening was all he needed. He peered in, squinting to focus. He saw a light on in the back. It looked like the kitchen area. The front room was dark but he could make out a sagging couch and old stuffed chair.

  He turned around and looked up and down the street. The boys were gone from their porch, but a woman was staring at him from the yard where the yippy little dog was still barking. He waved. “Have you seen Hosea?” he called. She picked up her dog, turned around and hurried back into her pink house. “Thanks,” he said under his breath.

  Before he could talk himself out of it, he put his hand on the knob and turned. Much to his surprise and more than a little disappointing to his personal safety gauge, the door opened. “Hosea?” he called softer into the gloomy room. “Are you here? I’d really like to talk to you. I come in peace,” he added as an afterthought, remembering Billie’s analogy of Tonto and The Lone Ranger.

  Other than the soft hum of the small window air conditioner in the front room, the house remained quiet. He moved slowly toward the kitchen where he could see the side of a refrigerator covered in magnets and pet dishes in the corner against the wall. Hosea did have a pet, but the bowls were small so hopefully the dog would be small as well and easy to fend off if it showed up.

  The kitchen was an L shape so until he got to the doorway, he couldn’t make out the rest of the room. A soft meow startled him and he stopped and drew his gun. A white and tan cat ran out of the kitchen and straig
ht toward him. But instead of attacking him like a good guard dog would have done, the cat ran through his legs and out the open front door. Great. Now Hosea really would have a reason to kill him.

  He looked down at the carpet where the cat had just run across. The matted, green nap was certainly not the cleanest he’d ever encountered, but he could still make out little paw prints in a slightly darker shade. He turned and followed the trail into the kitchen where the tracks glistened damply red against yellowed linoleum. Blood.

  He raised the gun and moved slowly, careful not to step in the trail that led directly to Hosea’s body. The young man’s head was braced against the bottom of the cupboards, his body sprawled on the kitchen floor as though he’d slowly slid down to rest. Blood oozed from gunshot wounds to his chest and head, puddling beneath him.

  “Dear God. I’m in deep –”

  The high whine of sirens alerted him to danger. He quickly holstered his gun, stepped around the murder scene, and hurried to the front door. A police cruiser was already turning into the end of the street. He sat down on the front porch and waited. When the officers stepped out of their car, he raised his hands in the air to show them he was safe.

  “Get down on the ground!” one of the officers yelled, moving forward with gun in hand.

  Handel put his hands behind his head and slowly eased off the porch and got down on his knees. When the officer approached, he volunteered, “I’m Attorney Handel Parker, Officer. I have a conceal carry license and am carrying my weapon in a shoulder harness.”

  “Lay flat on the ground, hands behind your head!” the officer yelled again.

  The other officer knelt down and relieved him of his weapon and cuffed his hands behind his back. Handel remained completely still, complying with the officers. The younger officer grabbed his arm and pulled him up to a standing position. He took out his wallet and checked his identification.

  “What are you doing here, Mr. Parker?” the officer demanded. “We got an anonymous call reporting a shooting.” He raised Handel’s gun and sniffed. “This hasn’t been fired.

  “I came to speak with a potential witness about the trial I’m working on and found Mr. Garcia dead on the kitchen floor. He’s been shot at least twice.”

  The other officer called it in on his radio. “Okay, you’re going to have to sit in the car and wait, sir, while we get this sorted out.” They put him in the back of the patrol car, still in handcuffs, and shut the door.

  Handel watched the two officers prepare to enter the house, guns drawn, one from the front, the other circling around to the back. He tried not to breath too deeply in the enclosed space. The back seat of the cruiser smelled like stale urine and vomit. He was going to have a lot of explaining to do when he got home.

  Chapter Twelve

  After a nice, civilized lunch with her son, learning that he was doing all the things she’d hoped he’d given up, Sabrina dropped Adam off at his apartment and headed back down the highway toward the winery. He was a grown man, like Billie said, but she couldn’t seem to see him that way. He was still her little boy, just taller with rougher cheeks. She knew she had to let him make his own decisions, even if they included stupid choices she didn’t agree with. She’d made plenty of those herself over the years. Was it a crime to wish better choices for your children?

  Her cell phone buzzed and she assumed it was Adam calling to apologize for disappointing her. She glanced down at the passenger seat where she’d dropped her phone with her purse. The screen was lit up with a number.

  Edoardo. Her heart did a little flutter. She felt like a teenager when she was with him, so insecure and pulled in by his obvious mastery of the female psyche. He could say that her hair was as brown as the underside of a muskrat and she’d probably smile and giggle. What was wrong with her? She knew the man was no good, but whatever had been pulling her to make split second decisions for the past year or so had also taken over her ability to say no to bad boy types – or bad man types.

  She shook her head and kept driving. Italian millionaires be damned! She would not answer the phone. When it stopped ringing, she breathed a sigh of relief. Wonderful. He’d given up. Now she could go back to Billie’s place and act like the stick-in-the-mud woman she’d always been. It was certainly safer.

  The phone tweeted, alerting her to an incoming text. Would the temptation never end? She pulled the car over onto the shoulder of the road and picked up her phone, opened chat and read the message. Come with me to Honolulu. If we leave now, we can be there for a torch lit Luau on the beach. “Of all that’s holy…” she murmured into the quiet of the car.

  She pressed her lips together and closed her eyes. A Luau on Waikiki. She could feel the sand between her toes, balmy breezes playing through her hair, and hear waves gently lapping against the shore. This was the stuff romance novels were made of. A rich, handsome man who was probably no good, enticing her to run off on a whim and live out what she’d only allowed herself to fantasize about up till now.

  Dropping the phone, she glanced in her rearview, and whipped the steering wheel around, making a U-turn back onto the highway. Billie would have to pick the car up at Harvest House if she needed it. She was going to Honolulu.

  •••••

  Billie had been back working at the office for a couple of hours before she realized that she still had not heard from Handel. She tried his cell again, but it went straight to voicemail. She turned off her computer and overhead light and pulled the door closed after her. Sally was sitting at her desk chatting with Loren when she stopped in the doorway.

  “No customers in the tasting room?”

  Loren shrugged. “Slow day. Sammie is watching the bar for me.”

  “Great. Could you tell Margaret I went home?” she said to Sally. “If she needs me I’ll be around. Just give me a call.”

  “No problemo, boss.”

  Loren followed her out to the front door and held it open. “When’s your mom going home? Thought maybe Sally and I could ride along to the city with her when she goes. Make sure she gets back all right and have a little adventure at the same time.”

  “That’s very thoughtful of you, Loren,” she gave him a crooked smile, “but I have no idea when she’s going. I’ll be sure and pass along your offer though.”

  He grinned. “Mother squaw getting on daughter squaw’s last nerve?”

  “Something like that. She’s out getting on Adam’s last nerve right now. I’m sure I’ll be hearing from him soon.”

  Loren laughed and let the door swing shut.

  Except for her mother’s rented Harley parked along the side, the garage was still empty when she passed by. It felt strange as if she’d been deserted. Where was he? She once enjoyed her own space, felt freer alone, but since Handel came back into her life she couldn’t imagine that state of existence being attractive ever again. He was more than a lover; he was her best friend. She could confide in him, share her heart with him, and just simply be with him.

  She let herself in the back door and flipped on the kitchen light. He was so insistent on speaking with Hosea Garcia in person before the trial resumed that she felt sure he would have returned from the office by now. She filled the decanter with water to make coffee, and reached in the cupboard for the Hazelnut Crème coffee beans when the realization hit her like a hammer to the chest.

  “He wouldn’t,” she told herself even while her heart raced with dread. She dropped the bag of coffee beans and picked up her cell phone. Quickly scrolled through the numbers to Handel’s office. It rang only once before Patty picked up.

  “Parker & Associates.”

  “Patty? This is Billie. Is Handel there by any chance?” She bit at her lip, expectantly hopeful, yet dreading the answer.

  “I’m sorry, Billie. Mr. Parker left quite some time ago. He said he had some errands to do. I’m sure you’ll be seeing him soon.”

  “Thank you. I’m sure I will,” she said. She dropped the phone on the table and sank in
to a chair, feeling numb. He’d lied to her. Not right out lied to her face, but just as good as. She felt conflicted, wanting to wring his neck but at the same time desperate to know he was safe. She glanced at the clock. He would have had plenty of time to get to the city, find Hosea, and start home by now. Unless something had happened. Something bad.

  She snatched up the phone and called his cell, and once again it automatically switched over to voice mail. She didn’t do helpless well, but that’s what she was. Without a car and without a clue. It was time to trust someone bigger than herself. Someone who knew the beginning from the end. “Please God, don’t let anything happen to him,” she begged.

  •••••

  Adam picked Davy up from soccer camp same as always, but the boy was unnaturally quiet. He sat with his head pressed against the door, not saying a word. Adam noticed he had a couple huge scrapes down the side of his leg and another cut on his lip, but he decided to ignore that until Davy was ready to talk about whatever happened.

  He flipped the radio on to a classic rock station and sang along. “Hot blooded, check it and see. I got a fever of a hundred and three…”

  Davy turned his head to stare at him curiously. “Do you know the words to every song ever written?” he asked.

  Adam laughed and turned the radio down. “Not quite. I know a lot of songs but I’m sure there are a few out there I haven’t heard yet.”

  “Mom said you’re a musical genius.”

  “No, she didn’t,” Adam shook his head, grinning. Margaret might love the way he played but she would never use those words. People like Page, Hendrix, Clapton, they were genius. He was adequate. “You must have misunderstood her,” he said.

  “No, I didn’t. She was talking to Uncle Handel and said compared to his singing you were a musical genius.”

  “I liked the shorter version better.” He shook his head. “But thanks for the update.” He turned into an empty corner lot where an ice cream truck had set up business. A line of customers were already waiting for popsicles and ice cream bars. He shut off the engine and rolled down the window. Ice cream always made things better. “Hungry?”