The tears came in torrents. She cried about Sam and how foolish she had been to fall in love with him. She cried about her dysfunctional family, and she even cried about less important things, like not having the faintest idea where she was going to get a job after she finished school, which would be soon. When all those tears were shed, she heaved a sigh, feeling completely spent. She wiped her eyes with her fingers, and tried to think of something pleasant. The image of Sam getting Gigi to drop her feud with Mrs. Castman popped into her head, and she smiled. She knew Gigi had grown fond of him and would miss him. Lyra would miss him, too. And that thought brought a new round of tears.
THE FOLLOWING EVENING Father Henry called to tell her he had secured the permission slips from the parents of the first graders.
“I’ll see you in a couple of days then, Father,” she said. “Thank you.”
Sidney arrived home an hour later. She looked exhausted, but she was happy because she was able to announce that all of her projects were handed in on time. The two friends talked for hours.
Sidney noticed that Lyra brought Sam’s name into the conversation as often as possible, and it didn’t take long for her to see that her friend was miserable. “You need to keep busy,” she said. “It’s the only way you’ll get through this.”
Lyra knew she was right, so she packed a small bag, gathered up her camera equipment, got into her new BMW, and drove to Gigi’s house in San Diego. Even though she thought of it as her grandmother’s home, the house actually belonged to Lyra. She had purchased it for Gigi when she decided to move to California, and if Lyra stayed in the area after finishing school, it would be her home as well.
The day was sunny, and it was a nice drive to San Diego. She parked in the garage, walked around to the front of the house, and only then saw the For Sale sign. A real estate broker was coming out the front door with a couple.
Lyra saw stars. She marched up the porch steps and asked the broker what she thought she was doing.
The well-dressed woman looked uneasily at the couple she was with before turning back to Lyra. Flashing a toothy smile, she said, “I have an agreement with the owners, Mr. and Mrs. Prescott, to sell the house.”
“They don’t own this house.”
“They believe they do,” she said belligerently.
“No, I’m the owner, and I have papers to prove it. You need to get off my property or I’m calling the police. And take that sign with you.”
“Listen here, young lady,” she snapped, “I’ve got three couples fighting over this property, and I’m …”
Lyra pulled out her cell phone and announced that she was calling the police chief. “Hi, Paul. I’m fine, thanks. There’s a Realtor at my house. She trespassed and is trying to sell my home.” She listened for a minute, then said, “Thanks.” She turned to the woman. “He’s on his way.”
Ms. Realtor wasn’t willing to lose such a high commission. She clung to the hope that Lyra was bluffing … until the police car pulled up in front of them. “You called the police,” the woman said incredulously.
“Yes, I did.”
“You actually own this house?”
“That’s right.”
The couple who had toured the house looked crestfallen.
“If you ever want to sell …” The broker took a card from the side pocket of her briefcase and handed it to Lyra.
As she and her clients were walking to the street, the policeman called out to Lyra from his squad car, “Do you want to press charges?”
“No,” Lyra answered. “She’s leaving.”
The Realtor was appreciative and turned around. “Mr. Prescott changed all the locks. Would you like this key to get in?”
“No, thank you. I’ll have them changed again,” Lyra assured her.
Lyra called the locksmith, and an hour later she sat on the porch swing while the locks were being replaced. Not even the ocean breeze or the sunny afternoon could diminish her anger, however. Once inside, she dropped her bags in her bedroom and left again to run a few errands. The mundane activity should have calmed her, but she was still seething when she returned home. She was putting her groceries away when her temper exploded. Not even chocolate could stop it.
“They tried to sell my house!” she shouted. No one was there to hear her, and yelling didn’t help. She was still fuming and had to tell someone. She reached for her phone and called her brothers.
Owen answered. “Hi, kid. What do you want?”
Owen was the oldest of the three and couldn’t seem to grasp the fact that his little sister was no longer a child. Of course, whining to him about their parents’ latest escapade probably reinforced that notion, but at the moment, she didn’t care. Her voice shook as she told him what had happened. Owen wasn’t very sympathetic. He laughed.
“Stop that,” she ordered. “People were going through my house with a real estate broker.”
“I know, I heard you, but Lyra, our parents can’t sell what they don’t own.”
“They must know that, so tell me, why are they doing this?”
He sighed. “They think they can pressure Gigi and end up with control of her money. I’ll bet they’ve already got another attorney working on it.”
“They want all of it.”
“Yes, they do.” He said, “Hold on,” and yelled, “Hey, Coop, the parents are trying to sell Lyra’s house.”
Lyra heard Cooper’s laughter. “It’s not funny,” she said.
“Yeah, it kinda is.”
“Do you know how much money those people have gone through? They’ve spent all of their inheritance, and the monthly amount they get from the other trust is generous.”
“Not to them,” he said.
“What am I going to do?”
“Nothing,” he answered. “Coop and I have your back. And Lyra,” he added, “when you need us to gang up on them, we will.”
“May I talk to Gigi?” she asked.
“She’s out with her girlfriends. Honest, Lyra, that’s what they call each other.”
“How is she?”
“Happy. She’s happy to be home. She’s said so a dozen times. I think she moved to San Diego so you wouldn’t be lonely.”
“She has lots of friends here.”
“But this is her home.”
“I know. Tell her I’ll call her tomorrow. And Owen …”
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
“Oh, God …”
She was laughing when she hung up.
In a much better mood after talking to her brother, Lyra finished straightening the kitchen. She suddenly remembered the panic room and wondered if Harlan had finished building it. She walked back to Gigi’s bedroom to see. Not only was the work finished, but finding a way to open it was almost impossible. The wall looked perfectly smooth. In the corner maybe? She tried pushing and pulling every piece of molding or hardware she could find, even looking at the floor for some kind of button or board to push.
Finally, she called Harlan. Since he was on his way for ice cream with his girls, he stopped by and showed her the exact place to push in the middle of the wall. He applied pressure with the palm of his hand, and the hidden door sprang open. Harlan reached inside and switched on an overhead light. The little room was perfect. Bottled water sat on the floor next to a small daybed, and the only other item in the space was a cell phone plugged into a charger.
“She had the room built for you, you know,” Harlan said. “Gigi worries about you staying here alone.”
Lyra saw the irony. All this time she’d worried about Gigi being alone when, in fact, Gigi had been worrying about Lyra.
“I’ve got a good family,” she said, thinking of Owen, Cooper, and Gigi. “I’m very fortunate.” She was calm again. Lots of children, she supposed, had parents who didn’t want to grow up.
Later that night, as Lyra was drifting off to sleep, the funniest thought came into her head. She didn’t crave chocolate anymore. Unfortunately, she couldn’t say the same about Sam.
THIRTY-EIGHT
MILO WAS BEGINNING TO THINK MR. MERRIAM WAS A REAL jerk. He had a trunk full of books and DVDs to give him, and his boss hadn’t bothered to call him to let him know he could bring them in. He still remembered how excited Mr. Merriam had been when he told him he’d found everything the girl had taken. Of course, it was a lie, but Mr. Merriam would never know that.
Now the boss was being just plain rude. Why didn’t he call? Milo bet Charlie and Stack had something to do with it. They were trying to squeeze him out.
Two entire days and nights went by without a word. Milo had half a mind to throw the boxes in the Dumpster, but he talked himself out of it. The boss was depending on him.
He made sure he took his disposable cell phone with him when he went out to get a triple cheeseburger with chili fries. He didn’t like eating in restaurants by himself, so he stopped for carry-out. When he got home, he tore the grease-stained sack open on his ottoman, and spread his food out. Picking up the oozing cheeseburger with one hand, he reached for the TV remote with the other and turned on the television. Usually, he watched cable channels, but there weren’t any good movies on, so he tried the network channels.
If he hadn’t paused in his channel surfing to dip a fry in the chili, he wouldn’t have heard Mr. Merriam’s name.
On the screen was the prosecutor, standing in front of a dozen microphones held by zealous reporters.
“Frank Merriam, Charles Brody, and Lou Stack are now in custody. The three men were arrested in connection with the murder of Bernie Jaworski.”
One reporter shouted, “We understand they were caught on tape destroying evidence at Paraiso Park. Is that true?”
Uh-oh, Milo thought.
“I’m afraid I can’t comment on that just yet,” he answered.
“What about a tape with Merriam confessing to other crimes?” another asked. “Is it true that he’s been implicated in other murders?”
The prosecutor remained calm and restrained. “I can’t answer that either.”
“What about bail?”
“We will be asking the judge to deny bail. We consider Mr. Merriam and his associates to be flight risks and also to be highly dangerous. All I can say is that the evidence we’ve collected thus far is compelling, and we feel confident we will have a conviction.”
“Wow,” Milo whispered. “No bail.”
The picture turned to Merriam’s office where policemen were carting off boxes marked “Evidence.”
“No bail?” Milo repeated. It suddenly hit him. He didn’t have a job any longer.
What was he going to do with all those books?
THIRTY-NINE
SAM COULDN’T STOP THINKING ABOUT LYRA. GOD KNOWS, he tried. Right in the middle of the lecture he was giving to the cadets in Los Angeles, she popped into his mind, and he lost his train of thought. The same thing happened in San Diego.
He thought a lot about the investigation, too. Agent Trapp was keeping him informed. He told Sam that neither the FBI nor the L.A.P.D. had been able to link Flynn to Merriam or Rooney.
“Go back to D.C. I’ll call whenever we have anything new. Don’t worry about Lyra. We’re not letting Flynn anywhere near her.”
Sam couldn’t do it. He couldn’t leave. He called and canceled his reservation, and drove back to L.A.
The case wasn’t tied up to his satisfaction. Something wasn’t right. Merriam hadn’t been given an offer he liked yet, so he’d clammed up, but his two accomplices, Charlie Brody and Lou Stack, were making deals right and left. They agreed to hand over information that would seal Merriam’s conviction on a dozen counts if, in return, they got light sentences. Seemed like a fair trade to the police, so they conceded. When it came to Flynn and his men, however, Brody and Stack revealed nothing. In fact, they said they not only didn’t know Flynn, they’d never heard of him, and nothing could get them to change their story.
There was a good chance that Merriam and his men feared the Flynn gang more than they did a prison sentence, but Sam wouldn’t rest easy. Everyone assumed that Merriam had hired Flynn’s men to go after Lyra, and now with Merriam behind bars, that the threat was over. If Sam had to get Flynn alone in a room to make the connection, by God, he’d do it, even if it meant losing his job. Better the badge than Lyra. The thought of anything happening to her made him crazy.
He never should have left her. He knew he could come up with at least ten reasons—or excuses—for leaving, but none of them held up under scrutiny. The truth was, Lyra scared him. Sam had left because he didn’t want to love her, and how stupid was that? He’d been an idiot and a coward. And, damn, he did love her.
He called her apartment and her cell phone to tell her he was coming, but no one answered. He decided to check in with Detective O’Malley.
“Anything new on the two guys you picked up?” he asked.
“No,” O’Malley answered. “Trapp probably told you we haven’t been able to connect them to Merriam yet. Johnson and Foley, the two who shot at you in the park, won’t give us anything. As much as we’d like to prove Merriam hired them, we don’t have the evidence. Same with the car bomb. We can’t connect that to Merriam either. We’ll keep trying.”
“Good,” Sam said. “We can’t let go of this until you do.”
PER THE D.A.’S INSTRUCTIONS, O’Malley arranged to have Johnson and Foley brought to the interrogation room. They had been sitting in their cells long enough to get worried, and it was a last attempt by the D.A.’s office to make a deal with whoever talked first. O’Malley didn’t think there was a chance in hell that either one of them would rat out Flynn. He could be more terrifying than any prison.
Sam was a few miles from Lyra’s apartment when the detective called him and asked if he would like to observe. Sam immediately turned around and drove to the station. He had no intention of simply observing. He had questions of his own.
O’Malley spotted him coming up the stairs. Sam was wearing a comfortable pair of jeans and a white shirt. O’Malley, in the same old rumpled blue suit he wore three out of five days, envied him.
“Nice dress code you feds have.”
“I’m not at work,” Sam informed him.
As they walked down the hall, O’Malley said, “Look, I slacked off on that list you gave me, and I’m sorry about that. I also want you to know I appreciate getting the recognition as head of the joint operation.”
