TWENTY-ONE

She found Jason examining the papers all over the fridge and humming under his breath. Other families put up their kids’ artwork. The Drakes left each other various ransom notes

Mitchell, you fuck, you can have your Cokes back when you return my Little Debbies.

death threats

When I find out who filched my baby spinach, I will END THEM. I WILL END THEM.

and various to-do lists in progress

Grocery list: Eye of newt. Unicorn horn. Skim milk. Arsenic. Toilet paper.

He turned at once when he heard her come in the kitchen, looking bemused, nodded politely, then his gaze flicked over her shirt. She was fully aware she needed a shower and hadn’t run a brush through her hair for hours.

“That shirt,” he said, “is just one big mixed message.”

Said the sober-looking fellow in the black suit with the dimple and the crazy-ass socks. “Yes, it’s an oldie but a goldie.” Black T-shirt, large yellow smiley face, bright white lettering: I HATE YOU. “What can I do for you, Jason? Detective Chambers, I mean?” Jason, I mean. Long, tall stud in a black suit, I mean. Take me away from all the weird, I mean.

He smiled. “You were right the first time. I apologize for the pop-in, but I was reviewing the case with my captain a few hours ago—”

“Really?” In less than a month, Chambers had done more than Kline in the last five years. That’s not quite fair. Kline was CCD, Jason’s not. Oh, fuck fair. “That’s great!”

He shook his head. “Not really. I had nothing for her. I wanted to stop by to warn you—”

“Cheese it, le flics.”

“Detective Jason, this is my brother Paul.”

“Did you just call him ‘Detective Jason’?”

“And the guy next to him is my cousin Mitchell.”

“Gentlemen.”

“No,” Mitchell said, shaking Jason’s hand. “Not at all.” He turned to his cousin. “I told you I heard ‘Chick Habit’!”

“Can we assume you’re here to tell us our dead uncle is still dead?”

She sighed. “And this is—”

“Your cousin Jordan.”

She blinked at the detective, surprised. He not only knew Jordan’s name, but he knew Jordan was a cousin, not a sibling. Dennis Drake had fathered three children out of wedlock with two different women, one of them a product of a one-night stand whom the family never met. After the trial, the cousins had to live with Emma, Angela, and her brothers. There hadn’t been any real choice—the cousins were basically orphans at that point. Thus, the Horde was born (all villains deserve a backstory). “Yes, that’s—”

Jordan was sizing up the sober man in the black suit. “Nice to meet you. But you’ve only met with Angela. How d’you even know who I am?”

The detective looked surprised by the question. “I read your father’s file. I, uh, memorized it. Accidentally.”

“Since you like memorizing reams of files, I guess you’re in the right job.”

“Yes.”

“Impressive.”

“No. Just my job.”

Angela was thrilled/mortified Jason was there, but that last comment was puzzling. The Drake case wasn’t his job; it had been closed years ago.

“What can we do for you?” she asked again. “And by ‘we,’ I mean ‘I’ because, I promise, the rest of them will bring nothing but chaos.”

“And brownies,” Jack pointed out. Angela smiled at him, she couldn’t help it, her smallest, sweetest brother/cousin.

“Yes. And brownies.”

“Brownies?”

Angela realized Jason hadn’t meant to say that out loud, because he immediately flushed. The smile she’d given Jack she now turned on him. “Skipped lunch, huh?”

“Paperwork.”

“Siddown,” Jack ordered, already tying on his Darth Vader apron. “We have so much food, what with all the adolescents still growing and the adult male who thinks he’s still growing.”

A yelp from Paul: “Hey!”

“Won’t take two minutes to heat something up for you. Five if you want it fresh.”

“I’m aware that’s my social cue to say something like ‘Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly’ or ‘I don’t want to impose,’ but your kitchen smells wonderful. Your whole house does. And I can linger. I went off shift an hour ago. If—if I’m invited.” Jason immediately sat at the turtle table. “I may have skipped breakfast as well.”

Jack looked delighted at the prospect of someone new on whom to practice his culinary wizardry and got to work. Paul gave Angela an inquiring look. “D’you need us?” and she shook her head so hard the room spun for a few seconds. No. God no. Go away and let me gaze dreamily at Jason Chambers. I’ll save you the leftovers from the leftovers. “You want us back in, just holler.” But they were already turning away, knowing the look of a cop who had no updates. Mitchell lingered long enough to lean over and murmur, “If Mom wakes up, I’ll try to keep her out of here.”

“Thank you very much,” she replied, then turned to Jason. “Drink? We have milk, chocolate milk, iced tea, pop . . .”

“Chocolate milk would be great.”

Gah, he likes chocolate milk. That is ADORABLE.

She brought two large glasses and sat across from him. Chocolate mustache, here I come. Because as awful as I look right now, I can always look worse.

“Sorry about the Horde. They tend to descend, create chaos, abruptly lose interest, and then vanish, emerging periodically to feed or do laundry.”

“Looks like a fun group.”

She snorted. “Let me guess: only child, right?” She’d heard such mythical, blessed creatures existed.

“No. Well, now I am. My brother was murdered when I was in high school.”

Shocked, she instinctively reached out, then remembered herself and yanked back her traitorous exploratory hand. “I’m so sorry. That must have been awful. Is still awful, I imagine.”

He nodded. “Twelve years last month.”

“Is that why you became a cop?”

“No, I entered the academy because I lost a bet.”

She blinked. Weird. “Oh.”

He quirked a small smile. “Kidding. Yes, that’s why I became a cop. And your father’s death was why you became a paralegal.”

“Well, that and my obsessive love for files and piles of paper and legal jargon and briefs . . . Jason, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

He leaned back in his chair and propped his right ankle on his left knee, which was the most relaxed she’d ever seen him. And she wasn’t going to check out his socks. No way. “Please don’t misunderstand, because we’re all grateful you took an interest when Kline retired. And you’re here on your own time—you could have been home a couple of hours ago—which is above and beyond and that isn’t a criticism at all. I think—we think you’re great to do this. But . . . why? There must be thousands of old cases. And you probably have a dozen open files at any given time.”

He laughed. “Only on my days off. On my days on, I have more.”

“Right. So . . .” She spread her hands, palms up. “Why us?”

He answered at once, with zero hesitation. “Because your uncle could have been me. I was the druggie lowlife and my brother was the golden boy. Pure good luck that I’m not behind bars, and don’t have an arrest record. Pure bad luck that my brother’s in the ground.”

I can’t believe he told me that. I love that he told me that. What to say to that? That one, at least, she could answer. The Drakes tried, whenever possible, to ascribe to the K.I.S.S. theory. “I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you. To finish answering your question, my chart-obsessed captain likes challenged and productive detectives, and your family’s history resonated. We had to share a floor with CCD when one of our detectives was accidentally exposed to—”

“Scabies!” she cried. Ack. Don’t sound so enthusiastic. “I, uh, heard. It was the talk of the courthouse for a while. And it definitely wasn’t funny.”

“No,” he replied soberly. “It wasn’t. They had to fumigate the entire floor as well as the booking area.”

“Awful.”

“The officer had to seek medical treatment.”

“These kids today.”

“It certainly wasn’t funny.” Maybe not, but he was smiling broadly at her. So broadly, in fact . . . Gah, dimple alert!

“No,” she managed, then gave up and laughed so hard she was dizzy with it.

When they both calmed down a bit, he continued, “While we were sharing space, Detective Kline would com—comment. He would comment on the case. Frequently. Over time, I was intrigued. And I saw you once. When you came to express your dismay at Detective Kline’s, ah, priorities.”

She remembered. She had expressed a great deal of dismay. So much dismay that she’d almost been arrested. So much dismay she hadn’t noticed the gorgeous Detective Chambers, doubtless a subtle and mature presence in the background. “Bad day,” she said shortly. “And Kline and I didn’t have a warm working relationship. Or even a cordial one. Or an effective one. Mostly because he didn’t think we were working together.”

“His error.”

“Thank you.”

“Your father’s case intrigued me and my captain didn’t mind me taking a look. But I’m sorry to say that, even with your help, I’m deadlocked.”

She nodded. “So my dad’s case goes back into the freezer, so to speak.”

“Yes.”

“I understand. I’m not thrilled,” she warned, “but I get it. And it was above and beyond for you to come by in person to tell me.” Agh. Presumptive much? “Tell us, I mean. Keep us all in the loop. That’s really all I wanted from Kline—to be in the loop, y’know?” To not be forgotten, the way my father’s been forgotten. The way my mother’s been forgotten, even by herself.

He nodded. “Understandable.”

“My mom, she’ll be relieved.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. She’s been after me to let Dad lie, so to speak. She hates all the time I’ve put into it. She mourns him, of course. But I think sometimes it’s more because she felt cheated of the chance to verbally smack him around some more. They had passion, but they weren’t a love match and also, why am I telling you this?”

“Because I like to listen?”

She snorted. “Good thing you’re a cop, then.” She realized she was leaning forward, almost hovering over him, and forced herself to ease off. “I’m not entirely delusional—I didn’t think we were in a seventies detective show, working together to defeat some nameless villain, evil is punished, roll credits, and cue the terrible soundtrack.”

“Something like ‘For What It’s Worth’ by Buffalo Springfield. Or Steppenwolf’s ‘Born to Be Wild.’”

She could feel herself light up. “Yes! Perfect.”

“Your doorbell. I like it.”

“Oh, God.” She hid her eyes with one hand. “Blame my brothers.”

“Or thank them,” he teased.

“They’re huge Tarantino fans. That song plays over the end credits of—”

“Death Proof. ”

She dropped her hand. “Tarantino fan?”

“Not really. He’s loud, and not subtle. But he thinks he is, which gets old.”

“You’ve described almost all of my blood relatives.”

He laughed again. “To be honest, his movies remind me of my job. So they aren’t escapist for me. But I love his soundtracks. They’re eclectic and, unlike virtually everything else he does, subtle.”

All I had to do was invite him over and let him lean on our doorbell and I could have seen a dimple! Argh, so many missed opportunities. And the dimple.

“But we’re getting off track,” he reminded her. “As I was saying, I’ve got nothing new for the file.”

“I know. It was beyond decent of you to come here and tell us yourself.”

“But.” He leaned forward, his blue-eyed gaze never wavering. “I would imagine you’ll keep working it.”

Angela could feel herself flush with pleasure. Kline had never, not once, referred to her assistance as “working the case.” Unless “Jesus Christ, I don’t need a civilian getting in my way!” was code for “working the case.”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Commendable.”

She took a page out of his book and deadpanned, “No.”

He laughed. Again! “Had that one coming. But listen, if anything comes up or I think of anything, I’ll get in touch right away.”

“Thank you so much!” Why am I excited? It’s not like he asked me out. “And could I call you if I have a question or run across something new? Or should I pester CCD?”

“Please pester me. If it’s beyond my scope, I’ll be glad to hand you off to one of their detectives.”

Again: Why am I so psyched? It’s not like I asked him out, either.

She knew why. It was an excuse to see him again, however slim. My dad’s killer might not ever be found which makes me happy because I can occasionally call Jason Chambers. That’s fucked up.

“Aw, you two are cute.” Jack bustled over with armfuls of plates. “Soup’s on. Not literally.”

Jason inhaled. “Something smells wonderful.”

Her little brother beamed. “That’d be my cologne, also known as Dawn Ultra dishwashing liquid. Or Angela’s perfume, Eau de Office Max.”

“Angela wears Dune.” Jason paused. “Sorry. I think that might be one of those things I shouldn’t have picked up on. Or, having deduced it, shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

“Not a problem,” Angela managed, because all the spit in her mouth had dried up. Drinks chocolate milk. Great socks. Wonderful smile. Hard worker. Atoning for adolescent bad behavior. Notices my perfume. I might die. I might die right here in the kitchen at the turtle table. I’m coming, Dad! Soon we’ll be together!

“Or maybe you’re smelling . . .” Jack presented their meals with a graceful flourish. “Steak Diane with mushroom risotto. Those’re reheated from last night but the endive and watercress salad I just made.” He turned and shrieked, “Any of you useless fuckwads want to stuff your mouth holes, get your asses to the turtle table!”

Angela started to turn back to Jason to apologize, and almost missed his chuckle. He was already sawing into his steak.

“Thanks, Jacky.” Angela managed—barely—to not clap her hands. “Oh, looks wonderful.”

“Well, you liked it well enough last night, so.” But he was pleased. Whew! Because there was a careful balance to complimenting Jack: too far in the take-him-for-granted category and your next three meals would taste like bacon mixed with paper towels and tears. Go too far in the other direction, he was too embarrassed to go near the kitchen for a day.

“Oh. God.” Jason looked up, chewing furiously. His eyes were narrowed with pleasure. “Outstanding.”

Jacky jabbed her in the ribs and muttered, “Marry this man.”

Don’t tease, Jack.

Paul chose that moment to breeze in. “Can I have extra meat? Instead of the salad? Or the risotto? I’d also like meat for dessert. Two desserts.”

“I’m not giving you a big plate of steak as your meal again. And I’m not making beef crème brûlée again. Eat the sides,” Jack ordered.

“Ha! You’re not in charge of what I eat or what I don’t eat but hide under the couch, shrinky dink.” When Jack reached for a cleaver, Paul added, “Fine! But I’m doing it because I want to, not because I fear you.”

“Whatever works.”

“Hey, Chambers!” Mitchell had plopped down opposite them and started in on the risotto. “Bet you’re wondering why we call this the turtle table.”

“Why would anyone wonder that?” Paul demanded. “You always think we’re more interesting than we are.”

Jason glanced down at the shiny lacquered table, then back up. He had almost demolished his steak and was starting on the salad. “Because it resembles a tortoiseshell in color and pattern? Like a form of marquetry?”

“Huh.”

Now I’m going to get horny every time I think of marquetry. Dammit.

The chaotic meal—especially with the addition of Archer and Leah—which should have been a fifteen-minute study in embarrassment, was great fun. Even more impressive, Jason held his own under the barrage of inappropriate questions and observations. She was sorry when the meal was over and everyone went back to what they were doing when not gulping down risotto. That was a first.

They

(kiss me! I’ll also settle for a comradely pat on the boob. well, my under-boob)

shook hands at the door. “I’m sorry I couldn’t bring better news.”

She shook her head at him. “Nothing to apologize for. It was kind of you to take the time and let us know. I’ll be sure to reach out if I find anything new.”

“I will, too.” He hesitated, like he was going to say something else, then just smiled at her and left.

“Nice enough guy,” Jordan observed from over her shoulder.

“Uh-huh.” Nice didn’t begin to encompass the coolness that was Jason Chambers.

“Too bad about Dad’s case,” Paul added. “But this guy’s a huge improvement over Klown.”

“Kline,” she corrected.

“Pretty sure it’s Klown. And if it’s not, it oughta be.”

“He’s wonderful,” Angela declared. “Did you see his socks?”

“He had socks?”

“He had feet?”

“Monet’s Water Lilies.” She sighed. No question: Jason Chambers was making her care about art again. Hopefully it wouldn’t turn into some odd, embarrassing Pavlovian response. Museum visits would be a nightmare.