they involved in Daphne’s class?” Russ asked.
“She’ll be staying at the Farm at Carriage Hill, Olivia’s inn. I don’t know if either Olivia or Dylan will be at the class. Olivia’s a graphic designer, so she might be interested. Noah and Phoebe are at his winery at the moment.”
Russ downed the last of his coffee. “Two friends from California fall for two women from Knights Bridge. Great, but I’m not seeing a role for me here.”
“Loretta worries about Dylan and Noah,” Julius said. “They’re like surrogate sons to her.”
“Dylan’s a longtime client,” she said. “I started working with him when he was a defenseman in the National Hockey League. That he’s now worth at least a hundred million and Noah over a billion...well, yes, I do worry about them. Knights Bridge is a small, idyllic New England town. It’s easy to be lulled into thinking it won’t attract people who might not wish Dylan and Noah and the people they care about well.”
Russ got to his feet. “What are you asking me to do?”
“Have a look at their lives in Knights Bridge from your point of view,” Loretta said. “Talk to Dylan. See what you think. You have more experience with security than either Julius or I.”
“Is Dylan expecting me to talk to him?”
“He will be by the time your flight lands tomorrow. I’ll call him myself. Noah, too. He won’t be there, but Dylan won’t make a move on anything that concerns Noah without talking to him first.”
“All right. I’ll let you know. I’m not sneaking around, just so we’re clear.”
“No problem,” Loretta said.
“And my first priority on this trip is Daphne.”
“Of course.”
“Even if it’s a waste of time,” Russ added, half to himself.
Julius brushed a bit of plant matter off his polo shirt. “Be glad the O’Dunn twins are putting you up at Moss Hill instead of their mother’s place. She has dogs, cats, chickens and over a dozen goats. That’s where Olivia gets the milk for her goat’s milk soap.”
Russ stared at his friend and colleague. “Goats, Julius?”
“Nigerian Dwarf goats.”
“I have to admit they’re adorable,” Loretta said.
“Have you ever seen a goat, Russ?” Julius asked.
“I have.”
Loretta inhaled sharply. Her husband winced. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”
“Both. I doubt I’ve seen a Nigerian Dwarf goat, though. Nothing wrong with raising goats, but if I have to stay in this town for more than a few days, I’m going to want hazard pay.”
Russ left Loretta and Julius smiling—and looking relieved—and took his coffee mug into the house. The sliders opened into the kitchen, which the daughter who’d bought the house was already planning on renovating. Russ put the mug in the dishwasher. He took spiral stairs in the adjoining hall to one of two upstairs bedrooms. The main living area was located on the middle level of the hillside house, and a master bedroom and bath were on the ground floor. Russ had moved into the smaller of the two upstairs bedrooms in March while he figured out what came next for him.
He’d never, not once in his thirty-three years on the planet, imagined working investigations for a Beverly Hills law firm.
Julius had refused to take rent money from him, saying he liked having someone there while he was in transition between Hollywood Hills and La Jolla.
Russ got out his worn duffel bag.
How the hell had he ended up here?
But he knew the answer. He didn’t like it, but he knew.
* * *
Russ eased onto a cushioned stool at Marty’s Bar off Hollywood Boulevard. Opened in 1972, it had survived the changes in the area because of its best and its worst qualities. Best, it served good drinks and good tacos, chili and burgers. Worst, it was a notch above seedy with its dark wood paneling, chipped tile floor and cracked vinyl cushions. Cheaply framed Hollywood photos hung crookedly here and there, featuring everything from black-and-whites of the Three Stooges to color shots of Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton. It wasn’t a spot to see and be seen, but since neither interested Russ, he didn’t mind.
His older brother greeted him with a big grin. Marty had chosen to put in an application there when he came to Hollywood eighteen months ago because they had the same name. To him, it was amusing, as good a place to tend bar as any before he got rich and famous. “What’re you having, little brother?” he asked.
“Heineken, thanks.”
It was one of a dozen beers the place offered on tap. Marty grabbed a pint glass—scratched but clean—and drew the beer. He was dressed head-to-toe in black. With his chiseled features, clear blue eyes and straight, medium-brown hair, Marty was classically good-looking. He had no visible scars, although plenty were hidden under his black attire. Russ had never been as good-looking. He was beefier, and more of his scars were visible, if from minor injuries. His eyes were a darker blue. A scary blue, a former girlfriend had told him. He didn’t know what that meant, but she’d insisted it wasn’t bad.
Marty slid the beer across the worn bar. “All set to head east?”
“As ready as I’m going to get. You still okay with driving me to the airport?”
“Yep. No worries.”
Russ didn’t see any sign of worry in his brother’s face, but Marty had been taking acting lessons. He didn’t like airports and anything that flew except birds and bugs, and not all of them. But it wasn’t something the two of them talked about. Ever.
“Daphne offered to drive me,” Russ said. “I declined.”
“She told me. Smart move on your part. She’d throw her back out driving your Rover. We’d never hear the end of it. I suppose she could take her car and leave the Rover with me, but I don’t see how that would get you to LAX alive. She tootles around here in that sporty little thing she drives, but I doubt she’s driven on a big highway in years.”
“It’s hard to tell with her.”
“I bet she’d have her own driver all the time if she could afford it. She must do all right, but no way does she have that kind of money.” Marty paused to take an order from another customer, then grabbed a pint glass and poured another beer. “It’s cool she likes this place.”
And because she did, Russ thought, he was working with Sawyer & Sawyer as an investigator, living in Julius’s guest room and on his way to Knights Bridge, Massachusetts. Russ had met Daphne when he’d come up from San Diego in February to check on Marty, make sure he wasn’t living under a bridge. She’d been sitting two stools down from where he was now, drinking a French martini and bitching about some nonexistent problem. She’d found out Russ was just out of the navy, doing security and investigative work on his own in San Diego, and put
