Controversy (14 page)

“W
here on earth is she?” Frankie asked, moving away from the window and pacing around the family table. “She should've been here hours ago.”

Joey and Peyton hung their heads and stared at the mahogany table in collective misery.

“Something has to be wrong,” Peyton said.

“Isn't it always when it comes to Michael?” Joey countered.

Hearing footsteps on the staircase, the girls looked up and waited until Sheldon and Donna rejoined them at the table.

“Kids are asleep?” Frankie asked.

Sheldon had brought her two youngest and Donna had, of course, put Teddy to bed.

“They're out like a light,” Donna said, folding her arms and leaning against the dining-room door frame. “Any word yet?”

The three sisters shook their heads.

“This is not a good sign,” Sheldon said, joining her sisters at the table. “Can this day possibly get any worse?”

No one answered. With Michael, it could always get worse.

“So what do you girls think?” Donna asked. “Is it really possible Michael could've had something to do with Phil's death?”

“I'm trying not to go there,” Peyton said, rubbing her belly and adjusting in her chair.

Joey sighed. “I can't imagine Michael willingly having anything to do with killing Phil. I mean, she just wouldn't. We all know Michael's bark is worse than her bite.”

The sisters nodded in agreement.

“Michael wouldn't hurt a fly,” she added. “Not intentionally, anyway.”

Sheldon sat down, as well.

“But what about those Damon twins you girls were talking about?” Donna asked. “Do you think they could've done this?”

The girls darted glances at one another.

Peyton drew a deep breath since she, more than the other girls, had firsthand experience with the Damon twins. After all, they and her first husband, Ricky, had been best friends.

At one time the Damon twins had been a constant fixture in her home. They, like her first husband, harbored dreams of breaking into the music industry. Also like her ex-husband, they lacked the talent.

As far as Peyton knew, they were hustlers by trade and dreamers by hobby. Ray Damon's few stints in jail never amounted to anything serious. Scott was another story.

The twins had a special knack for finding trouble or trouble had a knack for finding them—whatever the case might be. The two of them plus Michael could only equal bad news.

A pair of headlights pierced the window. The women jumped to their feet, including the very large and pregnant Peyton, and nearly bowled each other over trying to get to the window to see who had arrived.

“Is it her?” Frankie asked from the back of the cloister.

After making out the silver Lexus sedan, four sets of shoulders slumped in disappointment, but then lifted when they remembered the men were returning home from the airport with their baby brother, Flex.

They all rushed to the front door; this time, Peyton brought up the rear.

“Flex!” they shouted, throwing the door open and racing outside.

The result was a big group hug while Flex's boisterous laugh fell over them. “Now this is what I call a homecoming!” Flex said and then allowed them to pull him into the house.

A series of ahs and ohs floated around him as his sisters took in his recent thirty-five-pound weight loss. Though he had always been a big guy, the last time they had seen him he had packed on a few unwanted pounds, which was a job hazard for a firefighter.

Since his move to Decatur, Georgia, Flex's career had only flourished. He had been hailed a hero several times in the local newspaper. The first time was when he'd saved Linc's life. They became fast friends, but Flex had lied to his family and said that he was actually dating his now brother-in-law. Meanwhile, Linc and Peyton met and were secretly dating behind his back. It had been a humorous train wreck when the lies collided.

At long last the hugs loosened and Flex glanced around. “Where's Michael?”

The smiles faded instantly.

“She hasn't made it here yet?” Marlin asked, his own worry lines creasing his forehead.

“No,” Donna said, sliding an arm around her husband. “She hasn't called, either.”

Linc and Ryan took their positions next to their wives to offer their comfort, as well.

“Have you tried calling her?” Ryan asked, squeezing Joey tight. “Maybe she's still at her house.”

“We've been calling every five minutes,” she said. “She's not answering any of her phones.”

The men's reactions now matched the women's.

“Maybe she just changed her mind about coming,” Flex said.

But that didn't feel right to any of them.

“Why don't we go into the living room,” Flex said. “Everyone can fill me in on what's really going on.”

“I'll go get the bottle of Excedrin,” Sheldon said. When Flex frowned, she added, “Trust me. You're going to need it.”

 

K.D. Dekker Investigative Services was one of two business still renting in an old run-down strip mall off Ponds Avenue. The other stores and businesses had left long ago for more fancy, profitable buildings near Santana Row. Khail liked the location because the lease was cheap and there was always plenty of parking.

For the most part, he kept late hours. Mainly because most of his clients were interested in domestic snooping, where one spouse suspected the other of cheating. This usually required him being camped out in a nondescript car outside an equally nondescript motel most nights—too many nights.

That said, he didn't mind being in his office late doing his baby brother a favor.

“You got lucky,” Khail said.

Kyson stood hunched over his brother's shoulder, reading the computer screen.

“There are not that many R. Damons in the San Jose area. The only Ray I see has a current address in Sunnyvale.”

“Is that him?” Kyson asked, indicating the picture of a very light-skinned brother with obvious Puerto Rican features.

“Yep,” Khail confirmed. “That's Ray ‘Pretty Boy' Damon. I guess that means he's popular with the ladies…or fellas,” he added for a chuckle.

Jealousy pricked Kyson's pride as he evaluated the man. Until this moment, he hadn't given much thought to Ray Damon's possibly intimate relationship with Michael. “He's all right.”

Khail glanced over his shoulder, laughed.

“What?” Kyson asked.

Khail shook his head. “If you don't know, I'm not saying.”

Ignoring him, Kyson asked, “What was he in for?”

“Couple of DUIs, one breaking and entering and, this is interesting, carrying a weapon without a license.” Khail scrolled through the pages. “It says here he pistol-whipped some guy in a club back in '91 for grabbing his woman's butt. Oh…” He leaned back in his chair.

“What?” Kyson asked.

“Check out the named woman.”

He leaned forward, his eyes snagged the line. “Ms. Michael Anthony Adams.”

“Looks like he and your girl go way back.”

Kyson clenched his jaw as jealousy spread through his system like a virus.

Khail fiddled with the computer some more and clicked around a few links. “Well, lookie here.” Another image popped onto the screen. “Looks like your boy is a twin.”

“What?”

“Scott Damon,” Khail read. “Now, this brother here has a rap sheet a mile long.” He scrolled through the list. “I gotta tell ya. It ain't looking too good for your girl. If she's friends with men like these…”

Even though his brother didn't finish the sentence, Kyson knew what was left unsaid. “Thanks for your help, bro,” he muttered, struggling to rein in his temper.

“Not a problem.” Khail turned in his chair. “Glad I could help.”

Kyson nodded, walked away from the desk and headed toward the door.

“Are you going to be all right?”

He stopped before the door. “You know me. I take a lickin' and keep on tickin'.”

Khail studied him. His usual jovial demeanor was gone. “Look, I know it's been awhile since you've taken advice from your older brother, but maybe this time you might consider humoring me.”

Kyson remained quiet.

“I know you like her, but if I were you I'd run the other way from this chick. Trouble doesn't describe this. This is bad news. We're talking life changing bad news. Let this one go.”

He nodded. “Thanks again.”

“Don't mention it.”

Kyson escaped his brother's office and stormed toward his car. The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that Michael Adams was nothing more than a lying, scheming, conniving woman who had played him.

He jerked open his car door and then slammed it once he was inside, but before he could place the key into the ignition, his cell phone rang.

“Yeah,” he answered.

“Kyson?” Michael's voice trembled on the line. “Kyson, I need your help.”

M
ichael had never been so scared in all her life. How could a day that had started so beautifully have ended so badly? It had been hours since she'd shaken the tail of the mysterious black SUV. At least this time she had gotten a good glimpse of the driver: a tall, mahogany brother whose bulky muscles seemed to have their own muscles. It was a wonder that she had ever gotten away from him last night.

She couldn't make out much more since he wore black shades and black clothing. One thing for sure, he looked like one mean son of a bitch.

In the passenger seat, Michael nearly had to do a double take. There sat the driver's polar opposite: a short, petite Asian woman in the same black shades, clothes, and even the same evil look.

Who were these people? And what in the hell did they want? The two questions tumbled through her mind until fresh tears surfaced.

On Highway 101, Michael had made it as far as San Francisco before Detective Griffin's warning had filtered back into her fear-riddled brain. Even though jail seemed like a better choice than death, Michael turned around, suddenly certain that there was only one man who could help her.

Of course there was a vast difference between someone being able to help and someone
willing
to help. Remembering how she and Kyson had separated hours ago, there was a very good chance Kyson would turn her away.

First, Michael thought it would be best if she ditched her car. Since her modern-day Bonnie and Clyde had a fix on her vehicle, she needed to become a little more incognito, and fast.

She had thought about calling one of her sisters to come and meet her—was even seconds from dialing the number when it occurred to her that she'd be putting members of her family at risk. Maybe it was best to lay low until she could figure this whole thing out.

Figuring that it was best to blend into a large crowd, Michael parked her Volvo at the Great Mall and then decided to huff her way to the Blue Note Lounge, a small hole-in-the-wall bar a mile up from the mall.

Being out in the open increased Michael's paranoia. If she truly hadn't lost her tail, she was a sitting duck. Every five seconds she glanced over her shoulder and froze up whenever a black SUV drove down the street.

By the time she reached the Blue Note, she was an emotional wreck. There was nothing impressive about the bar. Its size was roughly the same as her father's living room. At least it was dark, reasonably crowded and it had a bar.

“Evening! What can I getcha?” the bartender, a middle-aged African-American woman with a crayon-yellow buzz cut, inquired.

“The strongest you got,” Michael said, working her way onto a bar stool and glancing around.

On the dance floor, if you wanted to call it that, two drunks struggled to keep in time with Kanye West's latest hit. At one table a group of four friends laughed and pointed at the television screen above one corner of the bar.

The rest of the Blue Note's patrons lined the bar, hunched over on old stools and nursing their drinks. A few guys were playing dice and exchanging dollars back and forth as if they were high rollers in Vegas.

Michael's drink arrived in record time and she tossed the contents back like it was water. She winced through the alcohol's burn and barked, “Another.”

“You got it,” the bartender said and quickly refilled her glass.

This time Michael downed the contents slower. She was grateful. She was grateful for how quickly the liquor stilled her nerves. “Hey, do you have a phone around here?” she asked, disappointed that she'd left her cell phone hooked up to her car's charger.

“Over there by the bathrooms,” the bartender instructed.

“Okay. Thanks.” She slapped twenty dollars on the bar and stood. The fact that there was a pay phone said a lot about the place.

She had no trouble finding the business card Kyson had given her on the first day they'd met. On the back was his cell phone number. Michael quickly shoved quarters into the phone. When he answered, her stomach looped into crazy knots.

“Kyson,” she said, voice trembling. “Kyson, I need your help.”

A long silence followed.

Fearful he'd hung up, she tried again. “Kyson, are you there?”

“Yeah. Where are you?”

“I'm at a place called the Blue Note Lounge. It's a bar off Capitol. Do you know where that is?”

Silence.

“Kyson, please. I'm really in trouble and I don't know who else to call.”

“You could always call your buddy, Ray Damon.”

“What?” she thundered incredulously. Had the police already found out about her and the twins? Then she remembered him being at her place when Ray called. “Kyson, it's not what you think. Trust me.”

This time she heard his long exhalation.

“All right. Stay put. I'm on my way.”

“Thank you,” she said at the same time there was a click. He hung up. As she returned the receiver back to its cradle, a part of her was relieved.

Michael returned to the bar and reviewed whether she'd made the right decision. There was not much to review; it was either him or call the twins. Common sense told her when one was running from trouble not to run toward
more
trouble.

“Can I get you anything else?”

“Yeah. I'll have another of the same.”

“You got it, honey.”

When the third drink was set down, Michael took her time nursing it, waiting. She didn't have to wait long.

Fifteen minutes later, Kyson entered the small lounge and immediately locked gazes with her at the bar. Michael fluttered a relieved smile. But one look at his iron face, and she was reminded to keep her emotions in check.

Just as Kyson approached the bar, the man sitting next to her paid his tab and left. Kyson took the empty stool next to Michael. “All right. I'm here,” he said evenly. “What's your game?”

Michael hopped off her stool. “Are you parked outside?”

“Whoa. Whoa. Slow your horses.” He patted her vacant stool. “Sit. Let's talk.”

She ignored the order. “We'll talk in the car.”

“I'm not sure I like that idea,” he countered.

Michael moved in close so that her words could fall into his ears only. “It's not safe to talk here.” She glanced around. “Anyone could be listening.”

Kyson studied her for a long moment and then started chuckling. “I gotta hand it to you. You're one fine piece of work. You have a sister in the movie biz, right? Maybe you should hit her up for an acting gig.”

Michael straightened her spine and lifted her chin at the quick barb. The action also caused her breasts to rise proudly, and Kyson's eyes followed the moment carefully.

“Did you come here to help me or not?”

“That depends,” he said lazily.

“On what?”

“On what you need help with.” He stared back. “Any more dead bodies you need to unload?”

Michael stepped back. A sudden surge of tears burned the back of her eyes. “Forget it. I made a mistake.”

After slinging her large bag over her shoulder, she moved to step from the bar. She didn't need him. She didn't need anybody. Her world was crumbling around her and he was acting as if she had just escaped from a mental institution.

She was, however, on the verge of a nervous breakdown and couldn't do a damn thing about it.

Kyson's hand shot out, captured her wrist and dragged her back. At the sight of her burgeoning hysteria, Kyson loosened his grip and his heartstrings yielded. If she was an actress, she was a damn good one.

“Let go of me,” she commanded. “I'm sure I've wasted enough of your time.”

“All right. All right,” he said, standing. “We'll play this thing your way. You need a ride out of here so we can talk—fine. I'll take you. Where do you want to go?”

Michael looked up through shimmering tears and said, “Take me to your place.”