Private L.A. (Private 6)

“You ever want to talk—”

“I know,” she said.

I got out, watched Justine drive away, and suddenly felt exhausted and in need of a vacation.

“Jack Morgan?”

“Yes,” I said, turning to see a stocky bald guy walking toward me, hand reaching inside his jacket.

My mind screamed, Gun! Carmine’s hired someone else to—

“Consider yourself served and subpoenaed,” the bald guy said, slapping a sheaf of court papers against my chest.

I took them, opened them as he walked away, found that the subpoena had been filed by Shank, Rossi, and Petard—one of the premier criminal-defense firms in the country—in the case of California v. Thomas Morgan, Jr.

Chapter 133

TOMMY WAS WASTING no time in bringing me into an airing of his dirty stories. The trial date was at least four months away, but he and his high-dollar lawyers—courtesy, no doubt, of one Carmine Noccia—were letting me know in no uncertain terms that they planned to put me on the stand.

I almost went inside. But it was all so depressing that I just started walking. I didn’t want to think about my brother, or Carmine, or whoever might have hired the hit man who’d tried to kill me at Justine’s. I didn’t want to rethink the Harlows and how we’d played them. I didn’t even want to think about Del Rio and the fact that he’d be leaving for a more aggressive rehab unit in the morning.

I just wanted to walk until I had a clear mind, and then maybe go look for a little fun, a little peace, a little time away from me. I set off down Sunset Boulevard, a man without a car, a freakish thing in L.A., moving with no particular place to go, hoping for serendipity to—

My phone rang. I stopped, closed my eyes, and prayed it wasn’t someone like Sherman Wilkerson, my client who’d discovered the first bodies in the No Prisoners case, telling me about some emergency I had to attend to, clean up.

But it was a number I didn’t recognize.

I answered, “Jack Morgan.”

“I was thinking again that we’ve had enough dress rehearsals, Jack,” crooned Guin Scott-Evans.

I smiled. “Were you really?”

“I was,” she said. “I am.”

“Where are you?”

“My place,” she said. “I got home yesterday.”

“You have plans tonight?”

“That’s why I called. I was hoping you might have a plan, Jack.”

My smile broadened. I crammed the subpoena into one of my pockets, feeling serendipity swirling my way, and said, “Meet me at my place in an hour. I’ll be showered, changed, and ready. I’ll take you out for a first-class meal, an excellent bottle of wine, and … well.”

“A grand opening night?” she teased.

“I was thinking Masterpiece Theatre.”

“Oooh, I want front-row seats for that performance.”

Chapter 134

JUSTINE DROVE NORTH on the Pacific Coast Highway. The sun had set. She’d just left her fifth session with her therapist, Ellen Hayes, since returning from Mexico. Things were better. Not perfect. But better. She’d gotten perspective on what had happened to her in the jail cell in Guadalajara, and on the Harlows, especially now that she and Jack had put the screws to them.

But Justine remained unsure of how and where to talk to Paul, and what she should say to him. She hadn’t gone to Crossfit once since coming back for fear of running into him. Her therapist had recommended the direct approach in a quiet, neutral venue, like a Starbucks.

Was that the way to go?