preservation,” he added.
“Let me think about it. No.”
“It’s win-win for you, Jack. So, okay. How much do you want?”
The security team showed up. I told them that Mr. Morgan needed an escort out. Charles looked at Tom, looked at me, looked back at Tom, both of us with the same sandy-brown hair, the same features—except for my lack of eyebrows.
Tommy laughed, said, “Throw the bum out.”
I said, “It’s your choice, Tom. You can leave by the door or go out through the window.”
“Okay, okay,” he said, grinning, putting up his hands, getting to his feet. “You’re making a mistake.”
In a minute, he was gone, with four security guys behind him to make sure that he didn’t loiter in the hallways.
Tommy had stirred me up. As he always does. And as he has done since we were about seven. My brother hates me enough to set me up to take a murder rap.
He’s done that, and he’s done worse.
I just can’t prove it.
I called Val back into my office.
“Val, I apologize for my brother.”
“I’m okay,” she said. “Thanks, though.”
Val said she’d put together a list of all the high schools within five miles of my house with names and contact numbers, the theory being the list might help Cruz and Scotty find car-bombing teens, if they existed.
Then she said, “It’s none of my business, but…”
“Go ahead.”
“You think Rick is going to be convicted?”
“Could happen.”
If Rick went away for aggravated assault, the raccoons would have a good time picking Private apart. That would be bad for business. Just as Tommy had said.
My brother was sick, but he wasn’t stupid.
Chapter 21
THE SPIRAL STAIRCASE at the core of our building is beautiful, like a cross section of a nautilus shell. It rises from the center of our reception area and expands outward as it winds to the top floor. The staircase ends just outside my office, where it is capped by a skylight that brightens the stairs all the way down.
Tommy was being escorted out by way of the elevator, so I left my office, paused at the railing, and looked down through the staircase to the ground floor. Once security had hustled Tommy to the street, I walked down one flight, to the fourth floor, where Justine’s office is right under mine.
I knocked, stepped through the open doorway. Justine’s office is a lot like her: tailored, witty, easy on the eyes. She was putting on her jacket, getting ready to leave for the day.
I said, “I think that Tommy set fire to my car.”
“Ummm. He’s capable of it, but what about all those other cars that were torched in your neighborhood?”
“That was Tommy. He was practicing,” I said.
Justine laughed, straightened her collar, packed up her laptop. She turned off her art-glass desk lamp depicting two fish doing the samba.
She said, “So why did he do it?”
I said, “He needs a special reason?”
My brother’s company, Private Security, provided bodyguards for Hollywood’s entertainment elite. He had a client list that looked like it had been ripped from the pages of
Variety
, and that list was like gold.
Private Security got lucrative, repeat business, and Tommy knew the rich and famous intimately: where they lived, where they were going, where they got their drugs—their weaknesses and vulnerabilities—and where they went when they didn’t want to be seen.
These A-list connections overflowed with perks for Tommy, including insider deals and young women who Velcroed themselves to him when he was attending to his clients in person.
But although he loved himself and the business he was in, what really turned Tommy on was springing traps and perpetrating dirty-dog schemes on his enemies—of which I was enemy number one.
Last year he framed me for murder. He tried to destroy me—and almost did.
Justine said, “I’m not saying you’re paranoid, Jack, but I don’t think Tommy, as low as he is, would stoop to torching your car. It’s too juvenile for him. Too
“Let me think about it. No.”
“It’s win-win for you, Jack. So, okay. How much do you want?”
The security team showed up. I told them that Mr. Morgan needed an escort out. Charles looked at Tom, looked at me, looked back at Tom, both of us with the same sandy-brown hair, the same features—except for my lack of eyebrows.
Tommy laughed, said, “Throw the bum out.”
I said, “It’s your choice, Tom. You can leave by the door or go out through the window.”
“Okay, okay,” he said, grinning, putting up his hands, getting to his feet. “You’re making a mistake.”
In a minute, he was gone, with four security guys behind him to make sure that he didn’t loiter in the hallways.
Tommy had stirred me up. As he always does. And as he has done since we were about seven. My brother hates me enough to set me up to take a murder rap.
He’s done that, and he’s done worse.
I just can’t prove it.
I called Val back into my office.
“Val, I apologize for my brother.”
“I’m okay,” she said. “Thanks, though.”
Val said she’d put together a list of all the high schools within five miles of my house with names and contact numbers, the theory being the list might help Cruz and Scotty find car-bombing teens, if they existed.
Then she said, “It’s none of my business, but…”
“Go ahead.”
“You think Rick is going to be convicted?”
“Could happen.”
If Rick went away for aggravated assault, the raccoons would have a good time picking Private apart. That would be bad for business. Just as Tommy had said.
My brother was sick, but he wasn’t stupid.
Chapter 21
THE SPIRAL STAIRCASE at the core of our building is beautiful, like a cross section of a nautilus shell. It rises from the center of our reception area and expands outward as it winds to the top floor. The staircase ends just outside my office, where it is capped by a skylight that brightens the stairs all the way down.
Tommy was being escorted out by way of the elevator, so I left my office, paused at the railing, and looked down through the staircase to the ground floor. Once security had hustled Tommy to the street, I walked down one flight, to the fourth floor, where Justine’s office is right under mine.
I knocked, stepped through the open doorway. Justine’s office is a lot like her: tailored, witty, easy on the eyes. She was putting on her jacket, getting ready to leave for the day.
I said, “I think that Tommy set fire to my car.”
“Ummm. He’s capable of it, but what about all those other cars that were torched in your neighborhood?”
“That was Tommy. He was practicing,” I said.
Justine laughed, straightened her collar, packed up her laptop. She turned off her art-glass desk lamp depicting two fish doing the samba.
She said, “So why did he do it?”
I said, “He needs a special reason?”
My brother’s company, Private Security, provided bodyguards for Hollywood’s entertainment elite. He had a client list that looked like it had been ripped from the pages of
Variety
, and that list was like gold.
Private Security got lucrative, repeat business, and Tommy knew the rich and famous intimately: where they lived, where they were going, where they got their drugs—their weaknesses and vulnerabilities—and where they went when they didn’t want to be seen.
These A-list connections overflowed with perks for Tommy, including insider deals and young women who Velcroed themselves to him when he was attending to his clients in person.
But although he loved himself and the business he was in, what really turned Tommy on was springing traps and perpetrating dirty-dog schemes on his enemies—of which I was enemy number one.
Last year he framed me for murder. He tried to destroy me—and almost did.
Justine said, “I’m not saying you’re paranoid, Jack, but I don’t think Tommy, as low as he is, would stoop to torching your car. It’s too juvenile for him. Too
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