Private L.A. (Private 6)

We hadn’t spoken in months, certainly not since Clay Harris died.

“My mouthpiece called a couple of hours ago,” Tommy said. “That son of a bitch Billy Blaze is indicting me.”

I flashed on District Attorney Blaze during the meeting in the mayor’s office. He hadn’t said a word to me about my brother. But then, why would he?

Tommy kept grumbling drunkenly. “Fucking murder one on circumstantial evidence. Can you believe that, Jack? They got no gun. No forensic evidence.”

“Other than the fact that you were picked up drunk and driving the dead man’s car.”

“No powder blast on my coat or hands,” Tommy said.

“You’ve always been clever,” I replied. “But anyway, sorry to hear you’re going to trial. I’m beat-up tired, heading to bed.”

“Heh,” Tommy said, laughed with more bitterness. “My liar says Billy Blaze will be there for the arraignment. Up for reelection next month, you know.”

“Tommy,” I began before my brother’s voice changed, became arch and knowing.

“I get to speak, Jack,” he said. “Did you know that? At the arraignment? I have the right to speak my piece, even against the advice of counsel and all. You should be there to hear what I have to say, brother. You really, really should.”

And then the line clicked dead.

A few minutes later, I lay in bed in the darkness, thinking, What is there to stop Tommy from bringing me down with him? Implicating me in a murder I was in no way part of just to see me fall into the void after him? Just to see me ruined at last?

Nothing, I thought as I plunged into sleep. Nothing at all.

Chapter 23

AT FIVE MINUTES to six the next morning, Justine sipped the last of her espresso and then groaned as she got out of her car and shuffled across the street toward the Crossfit box. She’d had barely four hours’ sleep. Stella, the Harlows’ bulldog, had whimpered until Justine had let her up on the bed. The dog had proceeded to snore and fart all night long.

But she really is a sweetheart, Justine thought as she entered the gym. What had happened to frighten her so badly? What had happened to the—?

“Justine? Hi.”

Justine startled and looked over to see Paul, the guy with the nice smile, nice eyes, and no wedding ring. He was stretching his hip flexors against the wall.

“Hi,” she said, realizing that she must look like hell. She hadn’t even had time to run a brush through her hair before she’d run out the door.

But Paul didn’t seem to mind. He just grinned, said, “Trying to keep up with you yesterday put me in a coma at work.”

She flashed to the grueling workout they’d endured the day before. “Sorry,” she said, moving to get a jump rope to warm up. “What do you do?”

“I teach English.”

“UCLA?” she asked. It was the closest university she could think of.

“No,” Paul said, his face falling slightly. “Bonaventure. Charter school.”

Justine felt like she’d slighted him somehow. Instead of starting to skip rope, she said, “Teaching is a noble calling. A way to change lives.”

Paul brightened again. “I like to think so. My students. They’re everything.”

“That’s really nice,” Justine said, smiling as she started skipping. “You make a difference.”

“I like to think so,” he said. “What do you—?”

Before he could finish, the coach called the class into the group warm-up, three rounds of Russian kettle bell swings, lunges, and inchworm push-ups.

Ten minutes later, sweating, feeling her muscles burning to life, Justine prepared to start the actual workout, a twenty-minute AMRAP, or As Many Rounds As Possible in twenty minutes, of five handstand push-ups, ten wall balls, and fifteen box jumps.