11. Maggie

Maggie

S itting at my desk, I sip my dark coffee. The bitter taste is soothing, and the warmth spreads through me, offering a brief respite from the chaos in my mind. Harry and I have spent the entire morning breaking down my disastrous meeting. The information was fantastic; that's not why I'm upset. No, it has everything to do with my conflicted feelings. Thankfully, Harry did what he always does—joked around until I felt better, then said he needed to run an errand. The clatter of keyboards and the low hum of voices fill the busy office, a constant reminder that work never stops.

I have a suspicion he'll return with my favorite donuts. God, Harry is amazing.

He always looks out for me. Always. The best partner a detective could ask for. I need to repay him somehow. He's always picking up the pieces of my messy life. When my father died of cirrhosis, he practically put the whole funeral together. I also suspect he paid off my father's debts all over town. The man had an open tab at practically every dive bar in LA. It probably wasn't much, but still, a huge weight off my shoulders.

I miss my dad in my own way, but a small part of me is glad his suffering is over. Not just with his disease, but with life. My father drank for a reason, though I have no idea what it was. He never opened up to me or spoke to me if he could avoid it. Still, the man was my father, and I wish it could have been different.

After we were put into foster care, we weren't allowed contact. The minute I turned 18, that changed. I found him, and we had a sort of strange relationship from that point on. I never lived with him again but did occasionally answer his calls to pick him up off a dirty bar bathroom floor. Not the typical father-daughter stuff, but it was fine.

Okay, it wasn't. It fucking sucked. I shake the awful thoughts away. It doesn't help to sit in the past. I have work to do. Pulling up the number to the surf shack, I connect the call.

"Sanderson Surf. This is Roger," a voice says.

I look down at my notes. No Roger on my employee list. He must be new. "Yes, may I speak with Matilda Jacobs?"

"Sure thing." He pulls his mouth away from the phone. "Til!" he yells.

"This is Tilly." Tilly's voice is pleasant, but it's clear she's busy.

My finger goes to my hair. "Yes, this is Detective Parker with LAPD. I was hoping we could—"

"Oh yes, Maggie. Grayson told me to expect your call." There's new venom in her voice.

Damn. I wonder if Grayson told her all about our not-date at the Cuban place? And why am I calling it that anyway? It was a date. With an agenda, sure, but there were candles lit, good food, and flirting. I'm an idiot for paying. It clearly hurt his pride.

But smacking my face about that will have to wait. "I'm glad." I wince. Did I really just say that? "Would you be willing to come in for an interview?"

There's silence on the line for several moments. I know I didn't lose her because I can still hear the bustling shop in the background. The sound of surfboards being moved and customers chatting blends with the faint roar of the ocean, creating a lively backdrop. So I wait. Finally, she huffs out a breath. "Is this a formal request? Do I need to call my lawyer?"

I shake my head. "Not at all. We're concerned with Grayson's safety. There looks to be a contract on him."

Tilly laughs, a sharp condescending sound. "Of course there is. And the San Diego department is handling it."

"We suspect the hit was organized by your grandfather."

"He's in jail."

"And you must know that this sort of thing happens from jail all the time." Silence again. "Miss Jacobs?"

She sighs. "I'm here. You want me to talk to him." It's a statement of fact. Tilly is a smart woman.

"Yes."

There's a deep breath on the other end of the phone, and I'm not sure if it's resignation or prepping for a tirade.

"Let me tell you something, Detective…" Oh shit, a tirade for sure. "My grandfather is a sick man. Not diseased or infirm. Just sick. Him in jail is right where he should be, and I am done with him. He does not exist and could be dead for all I care."

When her rant is over, I weigh my words carefully before beginning to talk. "Miss Jacobs, I appreciate your candidness. But please, let me explain. I…" I put a hand on top of my head and squeeze my eyes shut. What I want to say is that I care for Grayson, but that would probably earn me a second tongue-lashing. "I want to help. I uh, care about them. Er, George and Grayson."

"Care?" she scoffs out. "You arrested him and are probably looking for an excuse to do it again!"

Tell me why I'm doing this because, at the moment, I really don't know. "I assure you, I am not."

"Let me ask you this, Maggie. You see Grayson jaywalk, do you give him a ticket?"

"We really don't hand those out anymore, unless it's on the freeway—"

"Okay, he forgets to pay for a newspaper at a coffee shop then."

"I would mention it and insist he goes back to pay," I say confidently.

"Right. Easy. Now tell me what happens if some guy almost hits George with his car, driving like a maniac. Grayson punches him, do you call it in?"

I open my mouth to answer, but she keeps going. "Or you find out Grayson cut checks to a hitman named Phillip Waters ten years ago. It leads to new suspects in the death of a local businessman. Does Gray get dragged into that? Or someone accuses me of running drugs through my surf shop again ; do you tape a wire to his briefcase to see if I'm skewing the books? Or when the—"

"No!" I yell out. I'm surprised at the answer, but I mean it. Sometimes the best response is the one you can't hold back. "Tilly, I don't have some sort of agenda. I don't care who killed who or what you're doing with your business right now. I care about keeping your family safe. Just like I did when I tackled that guy that wanted to hurt you!" My grip on my phone tightens as I say it. This makes me a terrible officer, and I don't like the feeling of guilt in my stomach. Mentioning how I saved her is probably a low blow, but I need those points in my corner right now.

I wait quietly for Tilly's response. When it comes, I'm not exactly pleased. "If you call my place of business again, I will report you for harassment. Stay away from my family."

The call ends. Well, shit. That didn't go well. I slap the phone onto my desk and put my head in my hands. Damn. So not only did I risk my job by admitting I wouldn't turn on Grayson, but I didn't even get the help I needed.

Pulling out my phone, I stare at his contact info. Stay away from her family. Yeah, that's not going to happen. This is the part of the job that I excel at. She's not going to keep me from doing what I need to. I'm going to find out what's going on and keep both sexy Grayson and his adorable son safe.

I close my eyes and sigh. Her anger feels so misplaced. Or worse still, maybe something else has happened in the last three days that I don't know about. Is that it? She's mad at me because something awful happened? I'm suddenly worried that Grayson or George is hurt.

Me: Everything good?

The dots appear, disappear, and reappear several times, making my heart a jittery mess. But finally, they disappear for good. No response.

I toss the phone on my desk and put my forehead in my hands. It rings a second later, and I snatch it up. "Hello?"

Harry's voice comes over the line, washing away all my excitement in an instant. "Well, hello to you too. Got something for you."

"What?" I ask, rubbing the back of my neck.

"Waters is dead."

"Is that code?" I ask before it hits me. "Wait, the hitman?"

"Yep. Year and a half ago. Bullet to the back of the head, point blank range." My eyes are darting around. That sounds like a mob hit.

"Fuck," I say. Deep down, I was hoping Lucas Peterson getting murdered had a simple answer; hitman cleaning up his past. Seems that someone else is doing the cleaning though. Leaving us up the creek without a paddle.

"Yep. But no time to celebrate a new mystery. We're needed at a break-in at a warehouse. I'm out front."

I'm already on my feet and grabbing my suit jacket. The air in the office is thick with the scent of coffee and printer ink, a familiar blend that usually sharpens my focus. Investigating a break-in sounds like a wonderful way to distract myself. I need it right now. Because from where I'm standing, I'm back at square one for Grayson's little problem.

"Okay, you got the stuff?" I ask, heading toward the front.

"Oh yeah, I got your donuts. Let's go, sugar fiend." I laugh as I hang up.

***

Ten hours later, I finally unlock my front door and step into my sanctuary. Everything is in its place, but I only want one thing.

I toss my jacket onto the couch and go straight to my bedroom. The corner desk with the computer is bathed in a muted purple hue. I power the colorful tower up, and as it loads, I slip into my comfiest pajamas. The rest of the day has been long and boring.

Grayson hasn't texted back, and I'm more upset than I want to admit. But seeing the dots meant that at least he's alive.

The man has a mysterious way about him. I want to unlock his secrets, and not just because I'm a detective. For some reason, I feel he's hiding more of himself behind walls that I desperately want to bust down.

Such a calm and reassuring presence, but delightfully entertaining in the same way. It's like watching the sunrise while listening to a comedian. I'm drawn to that energy, despite knowing he's a criminal—scratch that—reformed felon.

Thankfully, within five minutes, I'm shooting aliens, my mouse clicking rapidly as I mumble curses at my teammates.