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  “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 had had second thoughts about asking for their help. Since he didn’t seem to realize this was not the kind of service they provided, it couldn’t be that. But he had changed his mind about hiring them. He had been in the process of leaving their office without giving Euphonia his contact info. If the traffic had been just a little worse, they’d have missed him and that would have been that.

  Of all the nights for smooth sailing on the 101.

  “The deputies went ahead and changed the locks, although I guess technically, they were only supposed to post a five-day notice. If you can believe that bullshit. I hired a company to clean out the place—which the assholes had trashed—and to dump their junk.”

  “Ah.” Taylor glanced at Will. “Problematical.”

  “Yep.”

  In California, the laws concerning squatters vs. trespassers were a little more complicated than in some other parts of the country. Trespassing was a criminal charge and much simpler to resolve, whereas, depending on a variety of factors, squatters actually had rights and protections. Even after a formal eviction, dumping or destroying a squatter’s belongings could lead to legal problems for the property owner.

  Plus, it was a shitty thing to do.

  Granted, so was squatting in most cases.

  “Well, I know that now,” Dekker agreed, “because Zamarion came back demanding I hand over their personal property, and when I told them everything had been carted to the dump, they threatened to burn down the house, which they tried to do a week later.”

  “Are you sure—” Taylor was, by nature, a skeptic. It was one of the things Will liked about him.

  “I’m sure,” Dekker said with finality. “According to the fire department, it looked like arson.”

  This was getting better and better.

  “Sounds to me like a case for the sheriff’s department,” Will said. Maybe working in conjunction with the fire department investigators. Maybe not. Looked like arson wasn’t exactly conclusive. What none of this sounded like was a case for a global security consulting firm.

  Taylor directed an unreadable look his way.

  Dekker said, “That’s what I thought too. Except the sheriff’s department says there’s nothing they can do. Even after someone ran me off the road a couple of nights ago.”

  “Wait a minute. Back up.” That was Taylor. “You went to the sheriff’s department with an arson report? And told them about threats made by—”

  “Zamarion. Like I said, he’s the ringleader. He claimed he’d been paying property taxes for the past two years and had a legal right to the house. He said he hadn’t received the eviction notice and that it had been illegal to change the locks and dump their belongings.”

  Which, if this Zamarion guy was telling the truth, was correct.

  Will said, “Ashe, I know you’re not going to want to hear it, but this is a civil matter, not a criminal one.”

  That time the look Taylor threw him was one of impatience. But Will was just telling it like it was. Clearly, the sheriffs weren’t impressed by the arson report, assuming there had been one. This whole thing was a mess and a matter for the courts. It sure as hell wasn’t something they needed to be involved in—although if someone really had tried to kill Dekker…

  “Did Zamarion pay the property taxes?” Taylor questioned.

  “Yes, but so did I. The way it works, his payments were applied to future bills, but there won’t be any future bills because I always pay my taxes. The fact that he’s paid toward the property taxes complicates my selling the house. It’s the craziest situation.”

  “You said Zamarion made threats,” Will said. “What kind of threats exactly?”

  “The kind you take seriously.” Dekker’s blue eyes grew glittery with emotion. “He came to the house and told me, in front of witnesses, he’d see me dead before he’d let me force him and his so-called family out.”

  “That’s a criminal threat. If he made it in front of witnesses, you can—”

  “Take him to court?” Dekker’s laugh was bitter. “Sure. If the sheriffs can find him. He’s a transient. He doesn’t have a legal residence. He’s using my house as his mailing address. And if I can persuade the painters to testify—that’s another big if right there since their own legal status is questionable. In the meantime, Zamarion is going to keep on trying to kill me.”

  Taylor chewed his lip, said, “Do you have proof that the person who tried to run you off the road was Zamarion?”

  “You mean like a convenient snapshot of the license plate number? Hell no! I nearly went off a cliff. There wasn’t time to grab my cell phone and start snapping photos!”

  “Okay.” Taylor was calm, his voice neutral. “How are you so sure Zamarion was the other driver?”

  “Of course he was! Who else? He had just threatened to kill me the day before! That’s not a coincidence.”

  Taylor opened his mouth, but Will cut in. “MacAllister. Can I have a word?”

  “Sure.” Taylor’s tone was easy, but the look he gave Will was direct and uncompromising. Clearly, his mind was already made up.

  Well, he could just unmake it.

  They went through the reception area door, crossed the hall, navigating ladders and cans of paint, and stepped into the boudoir-pink room that would ultimately be Will’s office. Their building space had previously belonged to a bridal shop, and the walls were painted in delicate shades of peach and pink. Pastel wallpaper borders featured parasols (why parasols?) and wedding cakes and lovebirds nibbling gold bands. None of which projected the appropriate YOUR SAFETY IS IN OUR HANDS! vibe—or even, in Will’s view, a reassuring preview of marriage.

  They were hoping to have the renovations finished before the end of the year, but the holidays turned out to be an unexpectedly busy time for contractors. Most of the work at American Eagle was having to be done after-hours—and at a premium price.

  Will closed the door to his office. He kept his voice low. “Okay, listen. Dekker is a friend, and I understand that you want to help him, but this is clearly a case for the sheriffs.”

  “Sure,” Taylor replied. “That doesn’t mean we can’t take a look around, ask a few questions.”

  Will didn’t trust that reasonable tone. “Yes. If that’s all you’re talking about. Because we’ve got to be realistic. You know as well as I do, we’re not in a position to take on another client.”

  Taylor shrugged dismissively. “If you don’t want to take Ashe on as a client, that’s okay with me. I wasn’t planning on billing him. I’ll handle this as a favor. In my spare time.”

  This was exactly what Will had feared. Taylor had not on
ly already made his mind up, he was busily working out the details before they could even finish identifying what those details might be.

  He tried very hard to keep his exasperation from showing. “What spare time? You don’t have spare time. Neither of us do.”

  “What’s your point, Will?” Taylor rested his hand on his canted hip, and studied him with cool, green eyes.

  That—in fairness, unconsciously—cocky posture, that skeptical really? stare, were the reason so many people longed to punch Taylor five seconds after meeting him. It wasn’t really who Taylor was. Or rather, yeah, the confidence, the cynicism, were facets of his personality, but not the main facets, and not traits he typically turned on Will.

  Obviously, this was a unique case, and Will needed to respect that. Which he was trying to do.

  He said, “All I’m saying is, doesn’t it make more sense—isn’t it better for all of us—if we direct Dekker back to the sheriff’s department? And if you don’t feel like that’s enough, we can refer him to another—”

  Taylor cut him off. “Uh-uh. We’re not referring him anywhere. Ashe came to me.”

  “I know that. That’s why I’m saying—”

  “I gave Ashe my word that if he ever needed help, I’d be there. I didn’t say, if you ever need help, I can refer you to someone. I promised I’d be there for him.”

  “I get that.” Will did. It would be unreasonable to be irritated with Taylor for making those kinds of promises years before they’d ever met. He wasn’t irritated, and he definitely wasn’t jealous—he didn’t think—but Christ, Taylor could be so bullheaded.

  “Do you?” There it was. That hint of cynical smile. “Because that’s not what I’m hearing.”

  “What you’re hearing is me trying to work out what’s going to be best for all of us. We’re not bodyguards—”

  “We’ve handled plenty of protection details, so don’t give me that. What’s your real beef?”

  “My real beef is not two hours ago we landed the kind of job we’ve been hunting since we left the DS, and we both know we don’t actually have the manpower to carry it off.”

  “So we’re going to be stretched thin. We should be used to that by now.”

  “So, taking on another job—one that’s liable to be as time-consuming and distracting as this one sounds—is not smart.” He shook his head.

  “It’ll take a day. Two at most.”

  “You’re dreaming.”

  “The hell. You think I can’t handle tracking down this Zamarion guy?”

  “Of course I don’t think that. But come on, you know what this is going to be. Chasing smoke in the wind.”

  “I know.”

  “Then you admit it’s not an efficient use of our resources.”

  Taylor opened his mouth, and Will added, “And while we’re on the topic of resources, I thought you were frantic to pay Richard back? Just this morning you said again how much you didn’t want to be in debt to him. Which is all the more reason not to take on a pro-bono gig that’s liable to jeopardize the first job we’ve had that might allow us to start paying off that debt.”

  Everything Will was saying was true, so it was maddening to have Taylor keep looking at him with that skeptical expression like…what? What did think was really motivating Will?

  “I see,” Taylor drawled. “If David Bradley came to us for help, you’d just give him the name of a good local firm and send him on his way?”

  Will felt himself change color. “It’s not the same situation. David is—was—”

  He stopped, realizing he was wading into quicksand.

  Brows arched in pointed inquiry, Taylor said mildly, “David is—was—?”

  “David is our friend—”

  “He’s no friend of mine.”

  “He’s not someone from my distant past asking for a favor. And anyway, I’d have to tell David the same thing I’m telling you now. We don’t have the resources to handle this.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Somehow the quietness of that was more jarring than if Taylor had shouted at him. “If David Fucking Bradley came through that door, asking for your help, you’d move heaven and earth to give it to him. We both know it. And guess what? I understand that. I even respect it. Which is why I expect you to understand and respect my position. I’m not asking you to put in extra hours. I’ll handle this on my own. And I’ll make damn sure that it doesn’t interfere with the Webster Fidelity job. Okay? Fair enough?”

  No, it was not okay, it was not fair. It was foolish and impractical. But after Taylor invoked David’s name, what else could Will say? No way in hell could he risk arguing with Taylor about David, and clearly that’s where this conversation was headed.

  Will said curtly, “Fair enough.”

  Taylor nodded, yanked open the door, and they walked in silence back into the front office. They found Ashe scrutinizing a stack of framed photos. He looked up with an expression of hope mixed with wariness, and set aside a seven-year-old picture of Will accepting his marksmanship qualification badge.

  “Okay,” Taylor told him. “We talked it over. We’re taking your case.”

  “You are?” Ashe threw a quick, doubtful look at Will.

  “Yes,” Will said.

  Ashe still seemed unsure. “If this isn’t the kind of thing you do—”

  “We do whatever needs doing,” Taylor said.

  “It’s our company’s slogan,” Will said sardonically. “We’re going to get it printed on coffee mugs.”

  Taylor gave him an unamused look before saying to Dekker, “Where are you staying?”

  “The beach house. Carpinteria.”

  “Okay, I’ll drive up first thing tomorrow and take a look around. You can fill me in on the rest of the story. We’ll start there and see where it leads us.”

  “That’s… I don’t know what to say. Thank you,” Dekker said, with another of those slightly ill-at-ease glances at Will. “Thank you both.”

  He did seem thankful. But Will couldn’t help thinking Dekker also seemed more scared than when he’d first walked into their office.

  Chapter Two

  Will was not happy.

  Even after two Knob Creek bourbons and ordering Aloha Steakhouse’s legendary prime rib Menehune cut, he remained stern-mouthed and steely eyed, and, in the normal course of things, that would have bothered the hell out of Taylor. In this case… Well, in this case, Brandt needed to suck it up.

  Taylor sighed mentally, gazing out the wall of windows overlooking the moonlit ocean. The restaurant was one of their favorite places. The food was good, the drinks were good, and the beachy decor with its high ceilings, polished wood, and marine-themed art was usually as relaxing as a walk on the beach.

  Not so much tonight.

  This was not exactly the celebration Will had wanted, and Taylor was sorry about that. But a promise was a promise, and if anyone ought to understand that, it was Will. He was the most honorable guy Taylor had ever known.

  He swallowed the last of his Aloha Amber Ale. He was sticking to beer tonight, not wanting to risk an alcohol-infused argument when they got home—he recognized the precariousness of his own mood. He should never have brought up David Bradley. Will, still appalled by the hurt he’d unconsciously inflicted in Paris, was bound to think that’s what this was about. But it was nothing to do with Bradley. This was about one thing and one thing only: keeping his promise to Ashe.

  And yeah, Will was right. Taylor had made that promise in a different life. Will was right that the timing was not good. Well, that went without saying. There was no good time for bad things to happen. Will was also right that they were already stretched too thin and they couldn’t—could not under any circumstances—afford to jeopardize the Webster account.

  And finally, Will was right that Ashe was not being completely candid with them.

  That was something he’d brought up after the first round of drinks. They’d been making carefully neutral conversation over the fried c
alamari, and Will had said suddenly, “Maybe I’d feel better about the situation if I didn’t have the feeling your boy Dekker is hiding something.”

  Until Will put it into words, Taylor hadn’t acknowledged his own reservations. And even then he said, “Yeah, well, he’s probably a little embarrassed. No guy likes to feel like he can’t take care of himself. I’m guessing the sheriffs weren’t particularly diplomatic.”

  “He was definitely vague about the arson report.”

  “That doesn’t mean someone didn’t try to burn down his place.”

  Will hmmed and sipped his bourbon. Eventually, he said, “How did he find us?”

  “We’re in the Yellow Pages. We’re on the web. We’re running ads in Ventura Life magazine. I would hope people could find us.”

  “That’s not what I mean. How did he know American Eagle is you?”

  “Us.”

  “Us. It’s not like we’re running ads under our names.”

  Taylor said, “We’re not hiding our identities either. Anyone who looks up our website is going to see our About Us section. It’s reasonable that our names might be popping up in Google searches.”

  “Maybe.” Will still sounded dissatisfied.

  Taylor again considered Ashe’s nervousness, came up with, “After all, it’s been a long time. Maybe he wasn’t completely comfortable coming to us.”

  “Coming to you.” It was said dispassionately, but point made.

  “Still.”

  Will’s comments confirmed his own gut feeling that there was more to Ashe’s story. But then Ashe had always been a little…evasive.

  He said slowly, watching Will’s face, “What are you thinking?”

  “Nothing,” Will said. “I’m just making observations as they occur to me.”

  They were both a little paranoid after Oregon.

  Maybe with good reason. A few weeks earlier they had visited Will’s father for Thanksgiving—now there was a homecoming for the history books—and discovered they were being tailed by a not-very-efficient PI by the name of Stuart Schwierskott.

  Schwierskott swore he did not know who had hired Schwierskott & Associate to conduct surveillance on them—or rather he insisted he had been hired by a legal firm acting as a middleman—and despite their best efforts, Will and Taylor had not been successful in finding out who wanted to keep tabs on them.