Watching Darlene McKenna was my job, and I was fine, just fine. But working the event meant I couldn’t give Vince Ginetti a talking-to. And that guy needed a talking-to.
This was some stage six shit. This was about controlling her responses. He’d drugged her so he could have control over her for a few hours. When she didn’t call him to either thank him for the high or yell at him for the assault on her bloodstream, he was going to get pissed and plan something bigger and better.
Emily knew this. She knew not to talk to him, and she knew she had to lock herself in the house. Darlene had put a nice security system on the house, but nothing was perfect.
“She used to sing. You know that?” Darlene said through her smile, waving to the cheering crowd. “She was better than me. More range. Just better. She stopped because her success bruised his little ego.”
“That’s sad.” I wanted to hear her sing more than anything. I wanted to hear her open up her soul, then tell her she was a star. I wanted to be the one to heal what he’d broken.
“I want you to go there and beat his ass.” She was so angry she walked the wrong way.
“That’s only going to make it worse.” I put my hand on her back to guide her in the right direction. “I’m just going to case him.”
“She hasn’t had a boyfriend in two years because of him. Last guy she dated ended up with four flats and a broken nose. He got hit with a crowbar, and while he was bleeding, the motherfucker told him he was now officially single.”
“And he broke up with her?”
“She left him. She cares about everyone but herself.” Smiles, waves.
That guy was a pussy if he let her walk away. He didn’t deserve her. Yvette, security from another firm, opened the doors, giving me a nod. I would have given her a smile or a word, but I was too wrapped up in thoughts of killing a stalker.
The sound changed indoors, and Darlene’s name buzzed in my earpiece.
“Status: McKenna.”
“Darlene McKenna’s in the building.”
In my earpiece, the buzz of names and places from every security person in the network went on and on. I located security on the balconies and in the corners, making eye contact when possible.
“What happened with the cat?”
“Ate the poinsettia and dropped dead at her door.”
“Cat would die in a corner. Under the house. Someplace like that.”
“See what I’m saying?” She looked past the brim of her baseball cap, flashing the fake silver lashes, her attitude as deep as the mean streets. “When we were growing up, she lived on Lake Michigan and I lived in Shit Town. She brought me around her friends like it was nothing and let me sleep over when it got loud in my house. She never made me feel like I was poor and she was privileged. So I don’t want her to feel like she’s vulnerable and I’m not. But if you have a few minutes tonight, go look in on her.”
“No problem.”
I took two steps back as my client made small talk with other artists and businesspeople. It was my job to know who they were by face and name, memorize whom she spoke to, how they seemed and their attitude toward her. It was my job to see everyone, any sudden movements, note the employees and what they were looking at, and keep track of the time.
I didn’t have a hard job. I’d been watching over people since I was in my teens. I ran my block like an enforcer. My motivations had changed, but situational awareness was a habit. I liked that I was expected to be detached. I liked things cut-and-dried. My home life was messy enough. I didn’t need a roller coaster in my working life.
But I was thinking about Emily, alone in the house, a cat-killing psycho’s obsession. He’d be thinking about the brownie. Scouring the news to see if she showed up on it. Probably watching the awards show right now to see if Emily was with Darlene.
I hadn’t thought about my sister in a long time. The crippling grief and guilt had been locked away, but deep in my gut, something in the bolted box growled awake.
It was all a memory, but the fury was so real I could touch it.
Maybe letting Emily stay home had been a bad idea. The worry started small as we entered the building and turned into a full-on roaring lion by the time Darlene sat down and I was backstage with fifty other security guys.
The Shrine Auditorium was the safest place on earth.
I tapped Darlene a message.
—I’m going to go look at this address you gave me— Before I was sending the first message, I knew I couldn’t just case Vince then go home.
—And check on Emily—
The answer came back immediately.
—Good—
—I’ll get back by the end—
—Thor can handle it—
Thor was her joke name for her driver, Jamal. His skin was as black as onyx, and his head was completely smooth. Physically, he was the exact opposite of a long-haired, blond Nordic god.
Hence, Thor.
—I’m out—
When I was LAPD, I’d developed a sense of when someone in my sight was in danger or when something was off. My mentor, Brian Muldoon, called it the Iron Eye.
I was supposed to check on Mr. Order of Protection first, then see Emily. But the Iron Eye said Emily was first, and I never questioned it. There were days I tried to remember if the Iron Eye had something to say the day my sister was killed, but it had just flat out failed me. Knowing it could fail humbled me and made me more sure that when intuition spoke, I had to obey.
CHAPTER 8
EMILY
I wasn’t much of a drug user. I’d smoked a few times in the High School of the Arts. Dropped acid once. Did my share of drinking. Once we got to LA, I saw how people acted on drugs, and mostly they were fine until the chemicals reached their brain. Then, no matter who they were, they were douchebags.
I had to dance the pot through my system. Sweat it out. I got up and did Darlene’s first dance in my dining room.
The first thing I ever choreographed for Darlene was one-two-three-and-up-and-turn-and-punch-and-bend-and— I was a singer and dancer. Feeling fake euphoria or really shitty wasn’t good for my performance. Smoking hurt my throat. Drinking depressed my immune system. So I just passed. The only time I felt really and truly free was when my body and the music worked together to make something new. Without that feeling of connection, I felt broken.
One-two-three-and-up-and-turn-and-punch-and-bend-and— I wasn’t prepared for how my body would react when the marijuana left it. I felt awake and exhausted. Sweaty-palmed. Confused. I was watching a show, then another, and didn’t remember changing the channel. When I closed my eyes, I concentrated on the light bursts behind my lids in a way that was mentally uncomfortable.
One-two-three-and-up-and-turn-and-punch-and-bend-and— The moves weren’t connected to my pleasure centers. I did them because I could. Because I wanted to work the drug through and out of my body. Because I didn’t want to eat another chip. I just wanted someone to talk to. Barring that, I’d dance.
My phone dinged, and I scooped it up.