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  He laughed, said, “That could do the trick.”

  She laughed too. “If only. I’d dance until he dropped dead. I’ll call you soon.”

  “I’m always here.”

  “Hugs and kisses,” she said. “Bye-bye.”

  “Bye-bye.”

  Tule sighed, then turned off the phone and went back to work.

  Chapter 43

  JUSTINE AND PRIVATE investigator Christian Scott were in a fleet car on their way to Our Lady of the Pacific, the sixth on their list of ten schools within a five-mile radius of Jack’s house. They had been canvassing schools all morning and it was now almost two in the afternoon.

  Scotty wasn’t surprised that they hadn’t turned up any leads.

  “When I was a motorcycle cop, things were black-and-white. Speeding. DUI. Collisions. This is so…random.”

  Justine said, “It’s a place to start, Scotty.”

  “Ah. The famous square one.”

  “You got it. And psychologically speaking, I agree with Sci. Teenage boys like fire. It’s sexy. It’s exciting. They set fire to buildings, to their enemies, to toilets—you name it, a boy has set a match to it. A car-bomb spree is more sophisticated than the norm, but it fits the profile. And that’s why we’re going where boys are.”

  The private high school on Winter Canyon Road was surrounded by grassy hills and native foliage. The buildings were plain stucco over cement-block construction with attached pergolas supporting large, blooming bougainvillea.

  Justine parked in the faculty-only lot, then she and Scotty crossed the busy school yard and entered the cool of the main building. They found the headmaster’s office at the end of a long, sky-blue corridor.

  Father Joseph Brooks was stocky, balding, smiling, and he was expecting the investigators. He shook their hands, asked them to sit down, and offered coffee.

  When they were settled in, Justine told the headmaster why they were there and asked, “Can you think of a student, or maybe a group of kids, who would have the competence and the anger or brio to go on a rampage like this?”

  “Oh, man,” said the headmaster. He ran his hand over his head. “You think any of our kids could be such out-of-control lunatics? We have our share of cocky, rich-kid idiots, but this is over the top. In my opinion.”

  The headmaster’s office faced south and had a sunny view over the valley. He kept bonsai trees in clay pots, and they crowded the windowsills. Justine wondered what this painstaking hobby meant to the man, reducing large plants with the potential to be huge into living miniatures, collecting them in rows.

  “They might be chemistry buffs,” Scotty said. “Your science teacher might be able to give us a lead.”

  “Mr. Peter Tong. I can tell you that Mr. Tong is a pretty traditional educator. Nothing radical or Fringe Division about him.”

  Justine smiled at the reference to the sci-fi TV show and asked when they could speak with Mr. Tong.

  “We’d like to ask him about the chemical composition of the explosives our lab turned up in the gas tank of one of the cars. Also, we have a list of your students who’ve been in trouble with the law.”

  Father Brooks was examining the list when Justine’s phone rang. Seeing it was Jack, she answered it.

  “Justine,” Jack said. “The cops were just here asking me where I was at six this morning. Another car went boom about two miles from my house. Look, in case it’s relevant, last night I got into a fistfight with Tommy.”

  Chapter 44

  I HAD BEEN in court, sitting behind Del Rio, when my cell phone buzzed. I went out to the hallway to talk to Detective Tandy, who gave me the breaking news on the crispy Aston Martin in Point Dume.

  He asked, “You happen to have a sleepover guest who can verify you were in bed this morning at six?”

  “No. Are you actually looking at me for this, Tandy? Or do you just have a crush on me?”

  “It’s called thorough police work, Jack. And I’m keeping track of you to make sure you’re not a target. Believe it or not, that’s the truth. Do me a favor. Let me know if you plan to leave town. If I can’t find you, I might worry.”

  “Thanks, Mitch. I’m touched.”

  I called Justine, and then I called Dr. Sci.

  I told my chief scientist that there was a new entry in the car-explosions series and that I wanted him to go to the crime scene on Grayfox Street, check out what was left of the hundred-thousand-dollar sports car, see if he could gain some insight into the who and why.

  I returned to the courtroom, stared at the back of Del Rio’s head as medical professionals testified about the surgical procedures Vicky Carmody had endured after her admission to the hospital.

  I was listening to the testimony, but I was thinking about this recent car destruction too. I knew where Tommy’s car was this morning. I had checked my phone and read the GPS data telling me that his Ferrari had remained at the Socket until 8:45 a.m.

  Since Tommy’s murderous machinations last year, I’ve had cameras on his house, a call tracker on his phone. I could check on his whereabouts for the previous eighteen hours once I got back to the office.

  Sci called and I left the courtroom again, sat on a bench in the hallway, and watched the live footage Sci streamed to my phone.

  First up, a Realtor’s-eye view of the fantastic homes on Grayfox Street, then the exterior of the six-million-dollar gated house in question. The gates were wide open. And inside the courtyard, lying like a small asteroid in front of the Mediterranean-style villa, were the burned remains of a once-beautiful car.

  Sci’s face came on my screen.

  “The car is totally incinerated, Jack. Looks just like your Lambo. The fire started under the car, probably detonated by a cell phone. The gas tank is BLEVE’d, so it exploded from the inside. Safe to assume the lab will find remains of latex in the tank.” Sci paused, then said, “And here they come.”

  As I watched, a flatbed truck from the city’s forensic lab passed Sci and drove into the courtyard. The ME’s van was right behind the truck. Both city vehicles came to a stop, and personnel got out, CSU techs and assistants to the ME, respectively.

  I was puzzling over the presence of people from the coroner’s office when the ME, Dr. Andrews himself, got out of the van and began directing his techs, who were carrying a stretcher.

  “Sci, what’s this mean?”

  “This—this isn’t good,” he said.

  There was a huddle outside the burned car as the two forensic divisions discussed, I assumed, procedure. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but when the ME’s people backed off, CSU prepared to load the carcass of the car onto the flatbed.

  I heard Sci say, “That’s right. I’m talking to Jack.”

  Mitch Tandy’s face loomed, close up in my hand.

  “I’m shutting down your live feed, Jack. But I don’t want to leave you hanging. There was a girl in the backseat of that Aston, sleeping off a party. That’s right. This time the firebug killed a human being. That changes things, doesn’t it, Jack.”

  Chapter 45

  MY ASSISTANT, VAL, was waiting for me on the steps outside the courthouse.

  “Jack, Hal Archer has called four times in the last hour. I told him you’d call when you got out of court. But, you know. He didn’t want to talk to me.”

  She handed me a folder of must-read documents regarding our upcoming pan-European office meeting. I thanked her, asked, “Did Archer say what he wanted?”

  “‘Tell Jack to call me.’”

  I walked her to her car, got into mine, checked Tommy’s location—his car was parked in the lot beneath his office building.

  I called Hal Archer.

  Archer owned Archer’s Prime, a chain of thirty steak restaurants up and down the coast. He was an empire builder and very adept at snapping his fingers. Archer had history at Private and was part of my inheritance from my father.

  He answered the call as I pulled out onto Temple and into the sluggish heart of the afte
rnoon rush. I hardly recognized Hal’s voice. Sounded like he’d been crying.

  “I’m afraid for my life, Morgan. It’s my wife. Tule. She’s going to kill me, but I have no proof.”

  “Why do you think that she’s going to kill you?”

  “She says things. She says to me, ‘Do you believe you can haunt me once you’re dead, Hal?’ Or, this I won’t forget, ‘It’s such a big bed, Hal. I can get used to sleeping in such a big bed alone.’”

  “Okay. She’s giving you a hard time.”

  “I don’t think you get it, Morgan. These are death threats.”

  “But she hasn’t threatened you with a weapon?”

  “She’s more subtle than that, damn it.”

  “If you’re really afraid of her, you should speak to your lawyer, right? Get a divorce?”

  I turned onto West Fifth Street, heading toward my office.

  “A divorce will get her two hundred million. She’ll get twice as much if I die. She wants the big payoff. Before I decide to just hand her a two-hundred-million-dollar payout, I want you to come over to the house. Give her a good interrogation. What is it called? Sweat her. Scare the pants off her.”

  I tried not to laugh at Hal Archer being scared by the Vegas showgirl he’d married last year. Anyone stood up to Hal, he got fired. But a hundred-and-ten-pound VIP cocktail waitress had Hal Archer by the balls and then some.

  “This isn’t a good time, Hal. I have a meeting back in the office, and I’ve been away from my desk all day.”

  “Listen, you. You’re on retainer. We have an ironclad contract. When I say come over to my house, you say, ‘I’ll be right there.’”

  “Hal, I have prior commitments. I’m sorry. I’ll call you before I leave the office.”

  I hung up.

  I wondered if Hal’s wife was really trying to kill him by pushing his buttons. Not that hard to do. Hal had had a quadruple bypass in 2012. He could be one confrontation away from a heart attack.

  I called Mo-bot, our resident computer genius, and asked her to download the surveillance footage on Tommy’s house and pull the cell-tower signals from Tommy’s phone.

  By the time I reached my office, twelve minutes later, the day had taken a very bad turn.

  Chapter 46

  MY PHONE WAS buzzing as I took the stairs to my office. I looked at the screen and saw that Hal Archer wasn’t taking I’ll call you later for an answer.

  I let the phone buzz, went to my desk, opened my in-box, and put the surveillance on Tommy’s house on fast forward. Then I double-checked where he had been by looking at the cell-tower logs recording signals from Tommy’s phone.

  Tommy hadn’t blown up the Aston Martin, so it stood to reason he hadn’t torched my Lambo either. My paranoia hit a wall. Justine was right about Tommy—this time. But it’s hard to say that I was relieved. My twin was up to something.

  As long as he breathed, Tommy would be trying to get me.

  In order to understand our ceaseless antagonism, you’d have to know about my father, Tom Morgan Sr.

  My dad was a big man, expansive, loud, danced with my mother through the house, and spent lavishly on friends and family.

  He also had a mean streak, what he called “toughening us up,” and he pitted his sons against each other in competitions where the winner took all, and the loser was shamed.

  I usually won. I went to Brown. My brother did two years at UCLA, then dropped out. I played college ball. My brother played the horses, ran numbers, did a little work for my father, who did undercover investigation for West Coast crime boss Ray Noccia. That much I knew. But did Dad grease cops? I thought so. He may have done more. He may have fingered some of Noccia’s enemies who’d ended up in the desert or in the ocean.

  In return, Noccia steered high-roller clientele to my father, probably pressured some of them. He definitely helped my father build Private up from a grimy storefront into the number-one PI firm in California.

  Clients signed up who weren’t gifts from the Mob. Celebrities. Corporate CEOs. The 1 percent.

  The money poured in, and my father became very powerful.

  My brother stayed close to my father by joining the family business, first working for Dad, then opening Private Security, a satellite company that contracted personal-security personnel to Dad’s clients.

  I joined the U.S. Marine Corps, shipped out to Afghanistan, and flew transport missions for three years. After the crash-and-burn of the CH-46 and the loss of all those good men, I left the Corps. Returned to LA.

  By then, my father had been tried and convicted of extortion and murder and was incarcerated in a California state prison for life.

  One day, two years after I got back to the States, my father summoned me to Corcoran. He said he had something to tell me, that it was a matter of life and death.

  I went to see Tom Sr. in a room with a bank of telephones behind a Plexiglas wall. My father gave me a gappy smile, showed off some of his tattoos, and told me the “good news.” Tommy was out. I was in. And my father made me an offer that was hard to refuse.

  He said he wanted me to take over Private, that Tommy was a degenerate gambler and was running the business Dad had backed into the ground. My father wanted me to restore Private to its former glory, but to do it clean and to do it big.

  He sent me the keys and a bankbook for an offshore account worth more than eleven million dollars. He had bonds and equities worth another four, and that was mine too, along with a storage locker filled with old furniture, Dad’s client list, and all the dirt he’d collected on his paying customers.

  He was quite a sweetheart, my dad.

  I turned down his offer, and three days later, he was dead, shanked in the liver over some insignificant dispute.

  His will was read. I was my father’s heir and I took over what remained of Private Investigations. I built it back up, and I did it clean and big. I bought the building downtown, staffed and equipped it with the best that Dad’s money could buy. I brought in a mostly first-class clientele and opened offices overseas. Private is in the black big-time.

  As a result, my brother hates me more than ever. And there isn’t a day when I don’t think about what he’s likely to do to me out of revenge. I’ll bet he doesn’t trust me either.

  PART THREE

  TILL DEATH DO US PART

  Chapter 47

  THREE HUNDRED E-MAILS had collected in my in-box since court recessed for lunch. I responded to a third of them: the ones from clients, heads of three overseas offices, Eric Caine, Justine, and Cruz.

  There was an e-mail from Hal Archer too, and I thought about how I had grown up calling him Mr. Archer, that he was loyal enough to stay with Private after my father was imprisoned, even after Tom Sr. turned the remains of his client list over to me.

  I inherited Hal Archer.

  He may have been my first client. But I never liked him. He was a bully. He demeaned his employees, all of them, including his contracted consultants, guys like me. Did I want to fire a client whose business was worth three million a year to Private’s bottom line?

  I did.

  I hit my phone’s Call Back button, listened as the line connected and Hal answered.

  “Hal, it’s Jack. I have an idea. I have a good friend, I used to work for him, as a matter of fact, and I think he would be more suited to handling your business than Private is.”

  “I killed her, Jack.”

  The air went absolutely still as I tried to process what Archer had said.

  “That’s not funny, Hal.”

  “I killed that bitch in self-defense. Maybe you’ll come over to my house now, Jack. That is, if you’re not too busy.”

  His voice was saturated with sarcasm, but the quaver was still there. Archer was afraid. And this time, he had reason to be.

  “Who else knows about this?” I asked him.

  “Only you.”

  “What about people working in the house for you?”

  “They’re in
the main. We’re in the back. Pool house.”

  “Don’t let anyone in. I’m on the way.”

  “Your father would have said, ‘Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything, Hal.’”

  “Don’t go anywhere. Don’t touch anything. Don’t talk to anyone. I’ll be there soon.”

  Chapter 48

  THE BEVERLY HILLS Post Office is the part of town that falls into ZIP code 90210, and it contains nearly all of the luxury gated communities in LA, including Beverly Park, where movie stars and studio heads and other moguls live and reign.

  Harold J. Archer’s estate cost him twenty million to build, which he did on the site of another twenty-million-dollar manse he’d bought to knock down. It fronted the best street, and from the edge of a canyon in the back, it had a drop-dead view over the city of Los Angeles.

  Hal’s wasn’t the priciest palace in Beverly Park, but he also owned homes in Provence, St. Barts, and Bali, so I guess it added up to a whole lot of money for walls, roofs, and views.

  I parked the Mercedes outside on the steep street and sat for a moment, knowing that I was about to walk into some tremendously upscale version of hell.

  I snapped out of it as a lithe young man, some kind of valet, trotted out to the curb and asked me if I was there to see Mr. Archer and was Mr. Archer expecting me?

  I said that Hal had invited me to join him in the pool house. The valet checked with Archer by phone, and Archer gave the valet the okay. I followed him up the green marble pathway through a contiguous line of pyramidal teak pavilions to the entrance of what Hal called “the main.”

  Young-man-without-a-name opened the heavy brass and mahogany door, and I entered the foyer to the combination living room/kitchen. The entire house was tiled in golden marble, and the center of this room’s floor was divided by a rill. The thin and musical stream of running water ran through the house, out the wide-open folding doors, and to the infinity pool that seemed to be running over the edge of the canyon.