Chapter Forty-Eight

Perry Margolin’s cell phone chirped while Brant was still harboring murderous thoughts centered on the attorney. Glad for the break in tension, Margolin fished the phone out of his pocket. He didn’t recognize the number but took it anyway. Brant eyed him with disdain.

Margolin greeted the caller like a high-priced lawyer, then his tone changed. Lower and less appeasing. Brant paid attention as Margolin listened for a few seconds.

“I’m paying you to keep people out. Why’d you let him in?” Margolin wasn’t pleased by the answer. “What’s his name? Why is he there?” Brant watched Margolin’s face as the answer came over the line. It was anger. “Tell him to get the hell out. I don’t care if you have to pick him up and drag him out. You hear me?” Margolin was going to hang up but the caller wasn’t done.

Margolin’s face turned red and his voice went up an octave. “Then you and that stupid kid at the door do it together. If you can’t handle one goddamned guy then I hired the wrong company!” Now, he slammed the little phone shut, though the tiny clam-shaped gadget barely made a snapping noise.

Brant stood with one hand on his holster, glaring at Margolin. Waiting.

Margolin rubbed a hand over his face and put the phone back into his pocket. He didn’t want to have to explain that someone was in the house talking to Merrill right now, and the dumbshit security guards he’d hired were about to throw him out. Brant wouldn’t like that.

“Just some guy, says he’s a friend of Merrill’s.” Brant knew it wasn’t that simple and took a step toward Margolin. Still waiting.

“Some goddamned guy, I don’t know who he is yet, why he’s around. I’m going to find out this afternoon. Merrill will tell me. I never heard her mention him before.” Margolin knew he should stop, but had to share his concerns with Brant now or there would be hell to pay if it came out later. “I think he might be a private detective.”

The Sheriff’s face tightened. He knew it would be a huge problem if one of the men who had an interest in Wick’s death had hired someone to look into it. That had to stop. But Margolin wasn’t done.

“Furyk, something Furyk. I’m going to check into him this afternoon.”

Brant took a sharp breath and it made him cough and sputter on the saliva he’d inhaled. He covered the few feet between himself and the lawyer, looming like a locomotive bearing down on a deer standing in the tracks. “Furyk? Fucking Bill goddamned Furyk is talking to her right now?”

Margolin took a step back and was up against the tree. The fear for his physical safety was matched by the sick feeling in his stomach. If Brant knew Furyk, it could only be bad.

The Sheriff caught his breath and leaned into Margolin, who thought Brant was a heartbeat away from pulling out his gun. “Furyk was a goddamned cop. He’s a pathetic, righteous, dumb shit, but goddamnit if he’s sticking his nose in this then you are screwed. Margolin. Godammnit, you stupid sonofabitch.”

Margolin didn’t know how to answer. He just knew if he lived to get out of Griffith Park he had to figure out what the hell was going on with Merrill.