2 Sisters Detective Agency(83)

Vera went to the desk and unlocked the bottom drawer, where she kept her trinkets from the Midnight Crew games. The photograph of Mr. Newcombe on the ski trip with his boyfriend. Neina Kanular’s ponytail. Jacob Kanular’s watch. She took Jacob’s watch and put it in her bag. She wanted to remember the old killer. The one who had set her free. The rest didn’t mean anything anymore.

Vera went to the hall, looked down over the banister at the officers standing in the kitchen doorway drinking coffee. One of them was using her father’s favorite mug. Vera thought about taking her gun out, shooting him where he stood. It was an easy shot. But now was the time to be smart and slip away into the dark.

She’d be back, when the time was right.





Chapter 121



I dressed for my father’s funeral in an Opeth T-shirt with a peacock on the front, worn over jeans with a nice blazer. Baby’s partygoer friends had left me little to choose from, and I hadn’t had time to hunt down formal clothing options in a city full of people a third of my size. Baby descended the stairs in a little black dress that was so short it made me choke on my coffee, but I decided it wasn’t the day to come down on her about her fashion choices.

She looked older. It had been only days since Ashton was shot dead right in front of her, a shock to her system that came only moments before she also witnessed the gruesome death of Martin Vegas. For a kid who had lost so much already, the week had stripped away her innocence and left her at times with a faraway look, the kind a person gets when they realize how easy it is to come face-to-face with death.

We hadn’t talked much since the night at the water park, let alone about whether her future lay in Colorado or Manhattan Beach. She snapped her little handbag closed and checked herself in the hall mirror, eyeing the makeup she’d layered on over a deep gash carved high on her cheekbone.

I had passed her bedroom a couple of times a night and peeked in, saw her lying on her side scrolling the same news sites I was scrolling in my own bed. The world was just beginning to learn what Ashton and his friends had been up to in their spare time, and videos of their activities were surfacing on the dark web. The hunt for Vera was continuing without success, and a hidden room in Jacob Kanular’s house, revealed during a search, was leading investigators down a long, dark path to discover just how many times the mysterious father had gone on the hunt before.

The doorbell rang.

“That’ll be our ride,” I said.

Short of any functioning vehicle, I had hired a pricey black limo to take us to the Hollywood Forever Cemetery, but I had the driver leave us just outside the wrought-iron entrance gates. When Baby stepped out of the limo beside me, she stopped dead at the sight before her. Six shiny black stallions stood harnessed to a gleaming black carriage, its top-hatted driver waving at us from the front bench seat. My father’s coffin was visible in the back of the carriage through glass panels rimmed in gold filigree, surrounded by lush red roses. Baby and I climbed up into the front of the carriage to sit on either side of the driver.

“Where the hell did you get this?” Baby blurted.

“Warner Bros. is doing another Dracula reboot,” I said.

As Baby and I stood by the grave, we looked around us. I’d invited a short list of people from my father’s address book to the funeral, but somehow the word had spread. Among the neighbors and legitimate business associates were others with whom he’d clearly had more illegitimate dealings: tattooed bikers huddled under a tree, wraparound sunglasses glinting in the morning light, a small sub-gathering of chained pit bulls panting at their feet; sly-looking mafioso types in pinstriped suits; guys in sports jackets with suspicious bulges at their hips and ankles; and a smattering of what were clearly undercover cops there to eavesdrop on any criminal whisperings. A few women, maybe girlfriends or mistresses, cried loudly and elbowed each other for space close to the grave, throwing nasty looks at one another. And some other women, perhaps even more private than these, stood off in the distance, pretending to visit the graves of other people.

A few of these attendees—gangsters, hit men, loan sharks, or whatever the hell they were—gave Baby their condolences as the priest readied himself for the service, some pushing thick envelopes of cash into her hands, which she secreted into her handbag. I pretended not to notice. When the priest began speaking, I leaned in to Baby.

“I know about the kiss,” I whispered.

“What?” She wheeled on me. “Are you kidding me?”

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re telling me this now?”

“When the hell was I supposed to tell you?” I said. “When Martin Vegas was shoving a gun in your face? When you were in your room crying about Ashton? Over cupcakes at the wake while we try to decide which one of these guys the undercover cops are after?”

“I don’t know,” Baby said. “How about three weeks from now, when I’ve had a chance to get over this.” She gestured at our father’s grave.

“I’m telling you now because I think it’ll help you get over this,” I said. I looked at the grave before us. “What happened between you and that teacher was just a silly mistake made by a confused kid.”

“I can’t believe this,” Baby muttered, folding her arms.

“I’m trying to tell you that those times, when you’re feeling confused and alone and you do stupid things, are going to keep coming. And while Dad’s not here to help you through them anymore”—I pointed at our father’s coffin—“I am.”