CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
next morning, I woke up and lay in bed debating whether or not I was going to call Brooke and find out why she'd bolted. Part of me was pissed as hell that she'd left me standing in the door of a well-known restaurant with all those people looking on and wondering what I'd done. The other part of me was worried about what had happened and I wanted to find out if she was okay. The part that was pissed and embarrassed was winning, until after I took a hot shower and got dressed.
Once I had a hot cup of coffee in one hand and the television remote in the other, I felt a little differently. I switched on the news and saw a reporter standing in front of the club holding a microphone with a caption that read: Club's Lawyer Dies Under Suspicious Circumstances.
"Well, duh, lady," I said to the television as I turned up the volume and listened to the reporter.
"Last night, sources close to the investigation into the murder of LA lawyer, Lydia Banks, said that police were closing the circle of suspicion and were looking at Banks’ client list for potential suspects. The murder appears to be an execution and the body thrown into the Marina del Rey Yacht dock as a means of disposing of it. Police are now looking at those who own boats that were docked at Marian del Rey and will be pulling those people in for questioning this later this week. One of those under suspicion is the owner of this club, Dax Malone. Malone was not only a client of Banks’, but he also owns a boat that has been docked at Marina del Rey for the past several years. Sources close to Malone say that there's no way he could have killed Banks, but police are exploring all possible avenues. Live from the front of Malone's club, Apex, this is Action News Reporter, Karen Findlay."
"Dammit!" I yelled into the empty living room just as my phone started buzzing. I looked down and saw half a dozen calls coming in, I took the one from Riza knowing that it would be the one with the most information. "What's up?"
"Boss, we have trouble," she said. "Beck's gone missing and so has the boat. And there are a hoard of reporters and photographers here in front of the club."
"Yeah, I just saw the news," I said as I ran a hand through my hair and tried to think about what to do next. "How long has Beck been missing?"
"No idea," she replied. "I lost track of him around midnight last night when I had to come back to the club and deal with a couple of wise guys who thought they were going to pull a heist."
"What the fuck?" I shouted into the phone.
"Oh please, they were flat out amateurs who had no clue what they were doing," she said. "I taught them a lesson that they won't soon forget and will spread out into the idiot community. There will be no more heists."
"Tell me you did not attract police attention," I demanded.
"Nope, no cops, just my own form of justice applied where needed," she said.
"Who was it?"
"North side boys who got a little too big for their damn britches," she replied.
"You sure the lesson was learned?"
"Abso-fuckin-lutely, boss," she said and I could hear her smiling on the other end. I knew that if Riza taught a lesson in justice, then there would be no further incidents from that crew. She'd learned her methods while in Iraq with the Marines. That was some hardcore shit.
"Now what are we going to do about Beck?" I asked.
"I'm gonna head over to the Marina and see if I can locate him with the GPS," she said. "I'll have him back in the club by lunchtime."
"I'd rather have him in rehab," I muttered.
"Can't do it unless he wants it, boss," she said. "Any other way and it won't stick."
"I know, I know," I said. "Just find him, Ri. I don't like having him on the loose while the cops are out there looking to pin Lydia's murder on someone. He's too easy a target for them."
"Gotcha, boss, I'm on it," she said and then disconnected.
I sat on the couch staring at my phone until I decided that the part of me that wanted to know what had happened last night was stronger than the part that was pissed. I pulled up Brooke's number and pushed the dial button.
"Hi, Dax," she said when she answered the phone.
"Good morning, Brooke," I said. "How are you this morning?"
"Embarrassed. Ashamed. Mortified," she said. "You name it – I probably feel it."
"Okay, so I'll bite," I said preparing to jump in. "What the hell happened last night?"
"Oh man, that's a loaded question," she sighed.
"Would you care to answer it or should I just write this off as the most extreme way a woman has said no to me ever?" I asked. I could feel the irritation rising in my chest, but I knew better than to go gangster on Brooke.
"I'm not sure I can ever apologize enough or sufficiently explain what happened last night," she said hesitantly.
"Try," I said. "I'll listen, and I won't lose my cool. I promise."
"It's pretty complicated. Can we meet for a drink later? It'll be easier to explain in person," she said.
"Only if you swear that it's not going to end the same way it did last night," I said.
"I do solemnly swear," she said and I could hear the trace of a giggle in her voice. "I will not run off like Cinderella when the clock struck midnight."
"You didn't even leave me a shoe," I said poking a little fun at her.
"Well, it's the digital age, you've got my phone number," she laughed. "A shoe seemed kind of old fashioned and needlessly wasteful."
I burst out laughing and said, "Very well, then we'll meet later."
"How about we meet at Dooley's around seven?" she suggested.
"That should work," I replied. "I'll see you then."
"I'll look forward to it," she said before disconnecting.
I sat staring at my phone wondering how one woman could create so much inner turmoil and desire. I didn't want to answer that question so I turned my attention to how I was going to deal with the inventory problem at the club.