“I can’t leave now,” I said. “Can you—”
“I can’t. Ira wants to meet about an endorsement deal before I go to the stadium. If it’s as big as he claims, it means a lot of money. I’ll leave your box on the kitchen counter. You can pick it up whenever. The back door inside the garage is always unlocked. You remember the garage door code, right?”
“Gee, let me think. Your birthday?” I said. Jarret had used his birth date for every password, code, and Internet login since we met in college. During our first years together, I was too trusting to argue about safety. The last few years we did nothing but argue and the passcode took a backseat to bigger problems. Even his parents used Jarret’s birthday for their house codes because their only child needed to focus on baseball instead of cluttering his mind with strange technology baloney. “You should keep your doors locked, Jarret.”
“What for? There’s nothing valuable in the house anymore. You moved out.”
At eleven, my mother, Vivian Gordon, waltzed into my house in a crisp gray linen dress and designer sandals. “Yoo-hoo. Ticket delivery.” Mom tucked a loose strand of her white pageboy behind an ear and furrowed her brow. “I need to sage this house again. I thought I cleared out the old spirits, but the air feels troubled and confused. Where’s the negative energy coming from? What are you doing?”
“Stacking books. Nothing chaotic or strange going on here unless you count the plumbers working on the bathrooms upstairs.” I gave up debating the supernatural with Mom years ago. She believed. I didn’t. Sage cleansing ceremonies made her feel like she contributed to decorating my house. I conceded to her mystical whimsies to distract her from rearranging the furniture. “Maybe you’re nervous about Dad’s birthday party at the stadium tonight.”
Mom clicked her tongue. “Your father will be happy with a hot dog, a beer, and his family around him while his beloved Cubs lose to the Dodgers. Here. Tickets for you and Nick.” She gave me the pair and a parking pass. “Your brother Dave has his. I just don’t understand why you kids insist on taking three separate cars to the stadium instead of all of us driving together.”
Thirty-eight years in, Mom still referred to my older sib as “your brother Dave,” a quirk I attributed to family pride. Dave somehow had managed to sweet-talk my best friend into dating him. Robin, an executive assistant at an entertainment management company, was widowed almost three years ago; Dave, a detective with the elite Robbery-Homicide Division of LAPD, was divorced. When Dave jailed Robin on suspicion of murder in October—a mess Nick and I spent a week unraveling—the possibility of a romance forming between them went from unlikely to nil. And in April, after Dave left Robin stranded in a ballroom while he and Nick came to my rescue near MacArthur Park, I thought she’d never speak to my brother again. They proved me wrong after Dave wheedled Robin into having dinner with him to apologize, and the two found each other. Ain’t love grand?
Since Dave and Nick had been best pals since college, and Robin and I had been inseparable since seventh grade, the four of us created a strong block vote if needed.
“Dave is on call and needs his car in case he has to go to work,” I said to Mom. “Robin won’t ride with Dave unless she has a backup to take her home. Nick and I are Robin’s backup. You and Dad sometimes leave the game at the top of the ninth inning to beat traffic. Nick likes to stay until the game ends. Separate cars will keep everyone happy.” Especially me.
Truth was, I didn’t relish listening to Mom gush over her famous ex-son-in-law to and from Dodger Stadium with Nick in the car. Though Jarret failed to convince me his cheating was a harmless mistake, he somehow charmed my mother into forgiving him. I remembered her comment after I explained my reasons for divorcing Jarret: “But he’s such a nice boy.”
“I can’t see why your brother can’t get one night off to celebrate his father’s birthday,” Mom said, picking up then setting down the snow globe on my mantel. “There are thousands of police detectives on the street solving crimes. It’s the same complaint I had about the force before your father retired—you’d think the Gordon men were the only two homicide detectives in the LAPD.”
“When you’re the best, everyone wants you.”
“You’re lucky Nick Garfield doesn’t have that problem.”
“Excuse me? Nick teaches the most popular classes at NoHo.”
“I meant no one calls a professor out in the middle of the night,” Mom said. “Where is Nick? Why isn’t he here helping you? School is closed for the summer.”
“He’s been here every day, Mom. He’s at the UCLA library doing research this morning,” I said.
“Research for what?”
“He’s prepping for a new class he’s teaching next semester—Religious Influences in North American Folk Magic and Occultism.”
Chapter Three