Five
“Fucker.” Rook ran his hand under the ice-water spigot set into the fridge, cooling off the scald he’d gotten from the complicated torture device masquerading as a coffee machine at the end of the counter.
So far that morning he’d lost a fight with the shower door, burned toast, and failed spectacularly at making a simple cup of java. A press of a button—the wrong button—and the squat metallic demon shot out a stiff tentacle and steamed his hand as if it were wrinkled cotton.
It wasn’t just the coffee machine that made him nervous. The whole damned castle was a trapdoor spider waiting to pounce on him every time he turned around. The Martins called it a house. Anything with three turret towers and too many fireplaces to count was a fucking castle in his book.
Once his mother threw her family into his face, he’d studiously avoided the place every time the carnie crew hit Hollywood, despite the riches lurking in the house’s depths. The edifice had been renovated numerous times, mostly patchwork rooms here and there, and apparently whomever had a hair up their ass changed the paint on only some of the walls in a failed attempt at interior design.
As a result, the place was like walking through time portals every time he moved from one room to the next. Thankfully, one of his aunts favored clean lines and strong furniture, because he’d found a bedroom he could sleep in, one without deer heads or rococo embellishments heavy enough to kill him if something toppled over. It was weird. Sleeping in the middle of things museums would beggar themselves to own. Even weirder was him not stuffing a lot of it into rolling suitcases and making a break for it.
Mostly he felt like a piece of dog shit hiding among chocolate cakes, but damned if Rook was going to tell anyone that.
Luckily, the kitchen was modern, a gleaming triumph of impractical appliances that did everything but what they were supposed to do. Rook was pretty certain the refrigerator was large enough to hold a mammoth, and he couldn’t really see the need for two walk-in freezers, but someone apparently disagreed with that assessment. The first time he’d wandered into the kitchen to get something to eat, it took him nearly fifteen minutes before he found where the food was kept.
Silverware shouldn’t have its own cabinet, he’d grumbled, and then scolded his fingers when they itched to open up the locked hutch just to see what was stashed inside. The temptation was still there—especially now that he was up for a murder he didn’t even commit.
Not that he hadn’t wanted to kill Dani Anderson, but if he was going to be pinned for it, Rook would’ve wanted to earn her blood on his hands.
But not as much as he longed for coffee at that moment.
Eyeing the door to the pantry room, Rook pondered, “Wonder if they have instant in this crypt?”
“The day instant coffee is served in this house will be on the day of my funeral,” a rough old voice boomed from the kitchen threshold. “And that’s because someone snuck it in.”
Rook could see traces of himself in the old man. Mostly it was in the face, but sometimes, when the man spoke, Rook could swear he heard himself in his cranky grandfather’s words. Archibald Martin’s blue and green eyes were like Rook’s, and they were about the same height—or had been before age stooped the man over. Their hair parted in the same way, straight down and into their faces, but the Martin patriarch’s full head of silver was ruthlessly cut back away from his forehead and slicked down with what smelled like VO5. Today he wielded an ebony cane for support, but from what Rook could see, the only thing weak about his aging grandfather were his outdated opinions.
His grandfather hated Rook’s homosexuality. Two gays in the family—Rook and his cousin Alex—was two too much for Archibald Martin, and hardly a day went by without his opinions being expressed loudly and clearly. Rook, on the other hand, loathed Archibald’s closed-mindedness with more passion than he probably should have given the old man, but while he didn’t mind being looked down on for being trash, Rook drew the line at being damned for who he fucked. They’d fought often and hard, usually resulting in one or the other throwing their hands up in disgust and quitting the field.
So while they’d reached a détente of sorts between them, Rook still had been shocked as shit to discover a team of expensively dressed lawyers popping into the interview room nearly as soon as he’d opted for legal counsel. For once, the old man’s manipulative and intrusive puppet mastering did Rook some good.
He was just left wondering what it was going to cost him.
Because Archibald Rook Martin did nothing without exacting payment of one kind or another.
“Hey, Archie.” Rook nodded at his grandfather, then turned around to the coffee machine again. “Don’t suppose you know how to work this stupid thing.”
“Considering this is the first damned time I’ve stepped foot in this kitchen in my entire life, I should say not.” The old man sniffed imperiously as he ambled over to Rook’s side. Eyeing the appliance, he grumbled. “Where’s Rosa? She’ll make your coffee for you. That’s what we pay her for.”
“Who’s Rosa?” Rook opened a small hatch he’d not noticed before and found a tiny white booklet inside. “Ah-hah, instructions. Or a warranty. And it’s in French. Fuck me sideways. Anyway, Rosa? Who’s that? Wait, let me guess, you’ve got your own household troubleshooter who comes in to wipe your butts when you need it.”
“Don’t be an ass, boy. Rosa’s our… cook. She should be making you coffee.” Archibald snatched the booklet from Rook’s fingers. “Here, let me see that. I want to throttle your mother every time I discover your ignorance in the most basic of things. Who doesn’t know French?”
“Probably Rosa. Whoever she is.” Rook crossed his arms over his chest, moving aside when his grandfather shoved him away from the machine. “Your cook’s name isn’t Rosa. She’s not even a she.”
“What? No, you’re wrong. All right, maybe not the cook but….” A thick, furry eyebrow popped up over Archibald’s green eye. “Someone’s named Rosa.”
“Nobody here.” He shrugged. “You going to take a crack at that thing, or do you want to give me another try? Because I need some coffee.”
“I’ve been calling that woman—the one who brings me everything—damn it, what is her name? She’s Rosa!” Archibald’s cane thumped once on the travertine floor. “Latina. Late thirties maybe. Skinny too. Needs some meat on her bones. Her name’s Rosa!”
“That’s the housekeeper. And no, her name’s not Rosa either. And to be fair, she needs a better title than housekeeper. She fucking runs this place.” Rook pulled his grandfather back just as the machine’s steaming tentacle made another appearance. It shot out a burst of hot, wet air, barely missing the old man’s liver-spotted hand. “Yeah, I tried that. There’s beans in there, and a hot water line, but fuck if I know how to get the damned thing to combine the two.”
“Mr. Martin, sir, two men are here to speak to you.” A placid-faced middle-aged woman padded into the kitchen on crepe-soled shoes, brushing down the dark blue full apron she wore over her white button-up shirt and black pants. A small frown appeared on her forehead as she spied them in front of the coffee machine, but she continued as if she found Archibald Martin in the castle’s kitchen every day. “They say they are detectives. Hanson has called in to the police to run their badge numbers and photos. He said everything checks out. Would you like to speak to them?”
“This is certainly about you, boy.” Archibald stabbed a bony finger into Rook’s chest.
“Probably,” Rook admitted. “Cops and shit coming to the door usually are.”
“Better go see what they want. Get yourself some of… well, whatever you need and come join us. I won’t say anything in front of them that I won’t say in front of you.” The old man grumbled when his housekeeper slid one hand under his arm to guide him out of the kitchen. “Let go. I’ll be fine. Help the boy with that thing. And for God’s sake, get something in here that just makes coffee. That damned thing practically peeled my hand off.”
“Yes, sir.” She inclined her head slightly and smiled. “I’ll order a percolator.”
“Or you know, a coffee machine. The kind you dump beans and water in then press a button,” Rook suggested.
“I don’t care. Just… get it,” Archibald ordered. “And hurry up, boy. I don’t intend to spend my day entertaining Los Angeles’s finest when I could be doing more interesting things, like watching paint dry. You are more trouble than you’re worth.”
They both watched Archibald stride out, his cane thumping a furious beat on the floors. Shaking her head, the housekeeper gave Rook a slight smile. “He doesn’t mean it, sir.”
“Oh, he means it, Rosa,” Rook corrected softly. “But he likes me anyway. Now, since you’re here, can you show me how to make a cup of coffee? I think this thing’s trying to kill me.”
“Holy fucking shit.” Hank’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Take a look at that house.”
“That’s not a house. That’s an asylum.” Dante blew out a low whistle. “Mierda, bad enough we’d thought this guy was a gardener. He’s got to live in a castle?”
They’d done a fair amount of research on Archibald Martin before heading up to the Hills. Rook’s Beverly Hills connection went from being a possible employee to a man who’d built an empire on a firm dynastic wealth. Dante’d lost the threads of Martin’s holdings minutes after starting a title search, and he’d been left to wonder why Rook Stevens turned to a life of crime when he had every single silver spoon available to put into his mouth since he drew his first breath.
Further investigation uncovered Rook Stevens’s indigent and reckless mother was the Martin family’s wild child, who’d fled her luxurious nest to tramp around the countryside with a carnie and sideshow troupe. Rook was an afterthought from what Dante could figure out, and the Martins appeared to have only recently discovered Rook’s existence.
Regardless of how long Archibald had known of his errant grandson or what he thought about Stevens, Dante had to admit that the old man had certainly moved heaven and earth to get their murder suspect out of jail.
Now Dante and Hank could only hope they hadn’t lost Rook in the process.
“Guy probably doesn’t even know he has gardeners. Probably thinks everything grows that way because he wants it to.” His partner echoed Dante’s whistle as they pulled into a circular driveway in front of the mansion. “Holy crap. Look at this place.”
Like Dante could do anything but look at the place.
There was a gardener, an older Hispanic man who gave him the hairy eyeball when he climbed out of the unmarked land shark LAPD’s motor pool gave them that morning. Dante tried to ignore the prickling uneasiness crawling out of his spine as he took in the lush landscaped lawns and gardens around him. The Martin place cast a long shadow—and not just one from its four-story turret. He’d spent many a summer working for people who believed anyone darker than a grocery store’s paper bag should use the back door when coming into their homes—if Dante was even allowed into their homes. The groundskeeper gave him that same vibe, as if Dante were still a scrawny Cuban-Mexican kid from Laredo delivering furniture from his uncle’s store.
Quirking a smile, he ran a finger over the badge hanging from his belt, feeling the familiar ridges and dips in the warmed metal. The skinny kid was nearly eighty pounds of muscle and years of schooling behind him, but he was there, lurking in the shadows, still a whisper of awe at the gray stone monstrosity rising up from the hill’s rippling canyon cleft.
The Martin place was literally a castle. It could have used a moat and possibly a lake monster to cruise through its murky waters in search of a meal made from hapless intruders, but Dante figured the enormous fountain set in the middle of the circle driveway was as close as the Martin family was going to get. Climbing ivy covered the castle’s gray stone walls, edging close to its enormous arched windows. Stained glass broke up the green and slate, sparkling colors dotting the walls and glistening prisms where the sun struck the panes. The castle loomed up over them, a dark shape high and thick enough to cast long shadows that chilled the air when Dante walked over the driveway to reach the front door.
“I don’t think there’s a doorbell.”
Hank bent over to study the door’s frame. Dante stepped up onto the entrance’s stone slab.
“Do we just shout? Or use that large knocking thing here?”
“It’s called a door knocker for a reason.” Dante lifted the heavy oblong ring. Before he could rap the knocker down, the door swung inward, jerking the ring out from between his fingertips. Staring down at the tiny Hispanic woman frowning at him, Dante pulled his jacket back and flashed his badge. “Hello, I’m Detective Montoya. This is Detective Camden. We’re here to see Mister Archibald….”
“Is this about Mr. Martin’s grandson?” Her accent rolled through Dante’s memory, a strong hint of Southern Texas Spanish layered over her English. Dante nodded, and the woman’s frown slipped off her brow. “Come this way, please. Let me make you comfortable in the library, and then I’ll tell him you are here.”
They fell into step behind her, the house’s cool air folding around them as the detectives were led deeper into the castle’s interior. Unlike the outside, the inside of the castle was a patchwork of styles and proportions. Even as unfamiliar as he was with interior design, Dante knew the furniture, carpets, and wall colors he passed were out of sync and in some cases even overwhelming. A few feet down the hall, a stuffed vulture battled a two-headed snake on an overembellished cabinet set next to a table bristling with a field of miniature ceramic deer around a stone monkey.
The housekeeper paused outside of an open door, motioning for the men to go in. She seemed oblivious to the monkey, deer, vulture, and snake, although Dante noticed she took a quick glance into the room before asking them if they wanted coffee.
“Coffee would be great if you’ve the time.” Dante smiled, purposely thickening his accent. “And if you think Mr. Martin is willing to spend enough time with us to share a cup.”
“You’ll probably be done with your coffee before he finishes complaining about his family,” the woman huffed. “Please, get comfortable. I will ask him to join you and bring some cream and sugar.”
Hank’s whistling went low and deep as they walked into a bookcase-filled room large enough to swallow nearly all of Dante’s house. The ceiling stretched up nearly twenty feet above them, topped with a skylight-paned dome crenulated with gold and malachite insets. A wide dark wood stairway led up to a half-moon floor above them, an elaborate railing and baluster of curlicues and fleur-de-lis running around the level’s edge. The upper floor held more books and trinkets, a march of glass-fronted barrister cases set against the room’s pale blue walls.
“Jesus H. Christ,” Hank muttered at Dante as the housekeeper left the room. “This guy’s probably got him stashed in here too.”
“Probably not, but I’m sure there’s a handwritten bible someplace in here,” Dante murmured, glancing about him. “Might even be a first edition.”
“Shit—can I even say shit in here?” His partner turned, catching Dante’s attention with a nod. “Take a look at that. Think that’s the guy we’re here to see?”
An oil painting dominated the space, stretching up over a broad stone fireplace. The portrait spared no courtesy to its subject, a pale, hook-nosed man with mismatched eyes and combed-back white hair. The background was indeterminate, mostly a suggestion of brushed leather and burgundy curtains, allowing the man to fill the canvas with the sheer power of his arrogant stare and pulled-in sneer. Dante studied the portrait, looking for a plaque or inscription, but its heavy wooden frame bore nothing other than a curious orange paint smear on its bottom right corner.
“Maybe.” He pondered, tilting his head. “The eyes are the same as Stevens’s. Curious about the damage to the frame. Looks new.”
“That’s what happens when I’m served tea when I’ve asked for coffee.” A cranky-voiced old man hobbled into the library, his gnarled left hand curled down over the head of an ebony cane. The years since he’d sat for the painting hadn’t been good ones. Age spots dotted his cheekbones, and deep grooved lines cut into the soft, waxy-looking skin on his face. If his mouth had seen a smile in the past decade, Dante would have laid a bet it was at someone else’s expense or pain. And from the chill in the old man’s hard gaze, it would be a long time until the next grin ghosted over his pale pink lips.
“Archibald Martin?” Hank spoke up, using an authoritative voice Dante secretly believed he practiced on his wife’s Pekingese. “I’m Detective Henry Camden, and this is—”
“I know who you are,” the old man grumbled at them, stamping the cane’s rubber tip into the library’s polished floor as he walked toward a set of wing chairs near the fireplace. “The question is, what do you think you’re here for? Rosa—well, whatever her name is—she’s bringing coffee for you freeloaders to drink while you grill me. Sit down, because I’m not going to strain my neck. I’m old. I’m not as tall as I used to be.”
“We’re actually here to talk to your grandson, Rook. If you know where he is,” Dante said as he eased into one of the chairs. His elbow struck a ceramic vase, and he caught its lip, bobbling it a few times before setting it back down. “Excuse me.”
“If you hit it again, let it break. There’s too much shit in this place anyway.” Archibald moved his cane out of Hank’s way as the redheaded detective made his way past a side table. “Get your ass settled down, and we can talk.”
“Mostly we want to know where he is, Mr. Martin.” Dante cleared his throat. “As you probably know, your grandson is a suspect in a murder case—”
“Let me tell you about my grandson, Detective.” Martin leaned forward in his chair and stabbed at the air in front of Dante’s face. “Actually, let me tell you about all of my kids and their damned kids. I’ve got thirteen grandkids, and only two of them are worth anything, and they’re both queer. The rest of them are leeches and goddamned turkey stupid. I’m surprised they don’t drown when it rains. I thank God Beatrice’s boy found his way back here, because at least he’s got a damned brain. So I don’t give a shit if you found him dancing in the middle of dead babies covered in blood and flossing his teeth with their guts. I will fight like hell to make sure that boy walks free. Because that’s what my family’s come down to, two faggots and a bunch of drooling idiots squatting over me and waiting for me to die. And I can only depend upon the faggots to keep this family going.”
“One thing you forget, old man,” Rook growled at his grandfather as he strolled into the room, his fingers hooked into the waistband of his low-slung jeans. “Us faggots can still have kids, but no matter what you do, you can’t ever fix the stupid. So how about a little respect there.” His odd eyes gleamed behind his dark lashes. “Hello, Detective. Imagine meeting you here. Did you find another dead body you want to pin on me, or was it you just couldn’t get enough of my ass?”