CHAPTER THREE

 

The Harley gave Jack the advantage in heavy city traffic and he arrived at his apartment well before Ray. He was grateful for the extra time as he needed it to put away the things he'd left on his desk—things his friend would need to sort out the Slaughter estate, if it could be called that: the envelope containing the deed to the Sunset house, pink slips to his vehicles, a copy of his last will and testament, other official documents, and sets of keys.

He took a couple deep breaths and forced down the worst of the blackness living inside him. He knew his friend was worried and was no doubt still trying to understand why he’d found Jack sitting at the table in his house with a bottle of whiskey and talking to a dead man.

If Jack could deflect the conversation enough, maybe Ray would forget about his concern, or at least push it to the back of his mind, so they could discuss the reason they were back in the apartment—Tristan Rybak.

Jack grasped the Beretta from the small of his back and ejected the magazine. He pulled back the slide and ejected the single Parabellum round from the chamber. Once everything was safely returned to the Beretta’s lockbox and in the desk drawer, he set the envelope on top of the box. Then Zoë’s tiny urn beside it.

Ray let himself in just as Jack was locking the drawer.

"You need to find a place with better parking," Ray complained as he closed the door behind him then made his way across the room. Jack was grateful his friend seemed oblivious to the changes in the apartment. "I had to park up near Washington Square. Winter might be over, but it's still muy frío out there."

"Karl always brings the cold with him," Jack said, referring to the nickname San Franciscans had given the blanket fog that was as synonymous with the city as the Golden Gate Bridge and Rice-A-Roni.

Ray dropped onto the sofa and extracted a folder from inside a jacket pocket. The folder was folded in a U and held together with a thick rubber band. Ray set it on the cushion beside him.

“Got any coffee going? This place is freezing. You leave a window open or something?” Ray asked, drawing his jacket lapels together.

Jack pulled his chair around the desk and sat facing his friend. "No. I just got here. Rybak file?”

Ray handed Jack the folder. “Yeah. Copies of everything are in there—missing persons report, investigator’s report, copy of his driver’s license, fingerprints, previous records, ME’s report, photos . . . . The usual stuff.”

Jack removed the rubber band, flipped open the folder and slid out the photographs he assumed the parents had supplied when they filed the missing persons report. The most recent seemed to be Rybak's class picture. The feeling hit him again that he should know the man. He stared at the picture for a long moment and wondered what had happened to drive him underground.

A moment later and without looking up, Jack asked, "You hungry? I'll call downstairs and order us something." He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. The last few days had been a blur of activity and sorting out his affairs. The mere mention of food made his stomach grumble, even as the stress of what he'd very nearly done at his house made him want to puke.

"Sure, fried rice would be great," Ray said as he rose. "I'll give Maria a call and let her know I found you. She's been worried sick about you, man."

Guilt rushed through Jack. Ray’s wife had cornered Jack over the holidays and told him she knew he struggled. Like anyone else who asked, he let her know her concern was appreciated but he was okay. Of course, he'd never tell her, or anyone, just how bad things really were. Not even Ray, who was his closest friend.

"Tell her I'm sorry to have worried her. I'm fine. Just needed some—"

"Downtime," Ray finished for him. "I get it. Don't forget eggrolls."

As Jack made the call downstairs for food, he watched Ray walk out onto the landing and close the door behind him. He wondered why his friend needed so much secrecy for a call home.

When Ray returned, he carried a bag with Tommy Wong's logo on the side. “I met the delivery guy on the stairs.”

"Set it on the desk," Jack said, moving the folder he'd been thumbing through.

Ray set the bag on the small table beside the sofa. "I'll grab those little folding tables from the back room. Least we can do is dine in relative comfort before hitting the files." Before Jack could stop him, Ray was through the door. A moment later, he reappeared. Thumbing over his shoulder, he asked, "Hey, bro. Wanna tell me what that's all about?"

"What’s what all about?"

"All the boxes. You moving or something?"

Jack folded his arms over his chest. "No, why?"

"Everything is packed back there. Even the coffee pot. What gives?" Ray set the tables in front of the sofa and unfolded them. When Jack didn't reply, Ray looked up at him with a piercing gaze. He crossed his arms, mimicking Jack's posture, as if he were squaring up for a fight. "Well?"

Jack hadn't rehearsed this. If things had gone to plan, Ray would already know why he'd packed up the apartment.

"Well, what?"

"If you're not moving, why is everything packed back there?" Ray slowly scanned the room and spotted the other packed boxes before meeting Jack's gaze again. "You are moving!" He dropped a hand to his hip and slapped Jack's upper arm with the other. "Why didn't I notice before? Some inspector I am. You finally decided to move in with us for a while?"

Shaking his head, Jack said, "I'm not moving in with you, brother. Where would you put me anyway? You barely have room for the menagerie already living there."

"We'll find space." Suddenly, Ray's tone became serious. "You're moving back to Sunset." It wasn't a question. "It makes sense now."

"How so?" Jack was definitely curious about how his friend came to the conclusion.

"It's obvious now that I see it. I found you at the house. Your Jeep is in the garage and so was your Harley. Everything is packed here. Even your computer." Ray clapped Jack again on the upper arm and said, "Come on. You can tell me what changed your mind while we eat."

Ray emptied the contents of the paper restaurant bag onto the folding tables: traditional takeout boxes filled to bursting with fried rice, containers of eggrolls, and a six pack of cold beer.

In his wildest dreams, Jack never thought today would end up like it had. He'd fully expected to either be in the first stages of rigor at his house, or by some fluke he'd already been found and laid out on a slab in Cutter's fridge. Yet, here he was, sitting down to a meal with his best friend. The scent of the food filled the small room, making Jack's stomach squelch.

Oddly, he wasn't actually hungry. He was ravenous.

"So, let me get this straight," Ray said, his mouth full of eggroll. "Your Jeep is in the garage at the Sunset house, but you're not moving there. And all your stuff is packed up here and you're still not moving? Is that right?"

Jack nodded. "Pretty much." He took a long draw on the beer, trying to wash down the lump sticking in his throat. It wasn't food. He'd been trying to think of something to tell his friend that made sense.

"I have to tell you, ese, I'm confused, because it sure looks like a move to me."

It would have confused Jack too if he were in Ray's shoes. "It's pretty simple. You don't have room in your garage for the Jeep since you converted it for the new room for Dewayne. Since selling Lea— the Mustang . . . I can now get the Jeep into the garage. It makes sense keeping it there."

Ray groaned through a mouthful of rice. He didn't look convinced. "Why was your bike in the garage too? If you aren't moving in, why put it inside?"

Good point, Jack thought. Jack used another swig of beer to give him time to think of an answer. "There were kids on the street playing ball. It was safer inside."

Yeah, that sounds plausible.

"Mmm-hmm." Ray still wasn’t convinced. "What's up with packing up the apartment?"

The answer to that one wasn't as easy. "You're a nosey Nellie tonight. Can't we just eat in peace?"

"Nuh-uh. What gives? You're moving and I want to know where to," Ray demanded.

Jack pushed his table away and leaned back on the sofa with the remainder of his beer. Think, dammit! Whatever he told Ray, he'd have to commit to. Right now, he only wanted to find out who Tristan Rybak was, then go back to his house and be done with it all.

"Painting," Jack finally said.

"Painting."

"I've been here four years and the place needs it."

"You can paint without boxing everything up," Ray pointed out.

Nodding, Jack said, "True, but I'm doing the floors too." Shit! He didn't want to commit to that project any more than he wanted to paint the walls.

Ray looked deep in thought as he gazed around the room. Jack could practically smell the grease burning from the cogs whirring in his friend's head as he digested what he'd been told.

A long moment later, Ray turned back to him. "Is that what you've really been doing the last couple days? Packing to fix up the apartment?" Jack nodded. “Tommy owns the place. Why are you doing all the work?”

Here was proof positive, when you told the truth, there was less to keep track of when forming a lie. Especially a big one. Think, think!

“Tommy’s paying. I’m just arranging everything since my schedule is flexible.” Just to dig himself deeper in the lie, he added, “I’ll take this stuff over to the house while the work is being done, get a hotel for a couple nights until it’s finished.”

“Don’t do that. You can sleep on our sofa.”

“Thanks, but I don’t know how long it’ll take. I don’t want to become a fixture.”

“Worse things could happen. When are you going to start?”

In his head, Jack chanted leave it alone. "I don’t know, but for now, you've brought over the files on Rybak. Let’s talk about that." Good save, Slaughter.

"Okay, okay," Ray capitulated. "Tell me one thing before we dig into those files. Does your refurb include getting a new sofa? Because one of the springs in this piece of shit is tapping my culo like it's drilling for oil." Ray shifted in his seat and leaned over to rub his ass cheek.

Jack chuckled. "Yeah, new sofa. You can help me pick one out."