The House of Wolves (House of Wolves #1)(40)

No matter how hard he tried, Ben Cantor couldn’t make Jenny Wolf for murder, even if she was a strong enough swimmer to make it to Oakland and back. He tried to tell himself that it wasn’t just because he was attracted to her—it was that he honestly didn’t believe she had it in her.

Could he ever see the two of them together when this was over? Maybe. Provided she wasn’t the one; provided she and her kid brother weren’t in on it together.

Could it be Thomas, who Rachel Wolf said had talked about wanting his father dead? Sure. Except nobody else he’d talked to had mentioned Thomas ever saying anything like that. Just wife number 2.

From the start, Cantor had been skeptical that Danny Wolf had the guts to do it, as much as he’d lost once the will was read. But Cantor knew better than to assume anything in cases like this, had learned the hard way not to always trust his gut. As far as he was concerned, at least for now, Danny was just a weasel with daddy issues.

Jack Wolf continued to be the one who interested Cantor the most. The one Cantor saw as being the lone wolf in all ways, even as he’d teamed up with Danny to ruin their sister’s life.

Fifteen minutes later, maybe an hour after the game had ended, Jack came walking into the parking lot, the first in the family to leave the stadium. He had the space closest to the entrance. Cantor watched as he pointed his keys at a Mercedes SUV, saw the lights flash, saw him pull out of the lot that Cantor had badged his way into.

“Let’s do this,” Cantor said to himself.

He wasn’t worried about Jack Wolf spotting him. Why would he even be looking for a tail? The way the Tribune was stalking Jenny, she was the one who needed to worry about being followed these days.

They eased their way onto King Street and then 280 South until it merged with the 101, then finally made their way onto Maple Street in Redwood City.

By now Cantor knew about the affair Jack had had with his managing editor, Megan Callahan, and the love nest he’d kept for them in Redwood City. Maybe they were back together.

What had Thomas Wolf said to Cantor that day?

The heart wants what the heart wants.

They passed the aquatic center, then Jack made a right turn past a sign that said BAIR VILLAS.

Where Jack and his editor did shack up once.

Jack Wolf pulled around to the back and up to a ground-floor villa that faced the swimming pool. There were two parking spaces in front. One was occupied by a sporty-looking silver Mercedes sedan. Cantor knew he could have run the plates, but he was busy right now, easing past Jack Wolf’s car and turning his own around so he had a good look at the front door.

Ben Cantor smiled to himself as the door opened.

Standing there in a Wolves T-shirt and nothing else, a glass of white wine in one hand as she pulled Jack Wolf into a kiss with the other, was Rachel Wolf.





Forty-Seven



RYAN MORRISSEY AND THOMAS and I were celebrating the victory over the Eagles at the Horseshoe Tavern.

Ryan had originally tried to beg off. He said that he wouldn’t know until midweek, at the earliest, if Ted Skyler would be cleared to play, so he needed to draw up two game plans—one if Ted did play, one if Billy McGee was the starter.

But I told the coach he could take an hour and let Thomas and me buy him a drink at Joe Wolf’s favorite bar.

“Your father brought me here one time,” he said.

We were at the same table at which I’d sat not long ago with my ex-husband.

“Mr. Wolf told me that night I’d end up coaching the Wolves someday,” Ryan said. “I thought he was full of it.”

“Only because he generally was,” Thomas said.

Thomas and I were on one side of the table, Ryan on the other. He smiled at us now. “I had no idea I’d get the job like this,” he said.

I was drinking draft beer, along with Ryan. Thomas was drinking Diet Coke. I’d asked him once if he ever thought he’d drink again, and he’d said that his former dealer sure hoped so, because in the old days it only took a couple of drinks before he was off to the races.

“Okay,” I said to Ryan. “I’ve waited long enough to hear what Billy McGee said to you before we went for the two points.”

“Not sure I can repeat all of it in front of a lady,” Ryan said.

“Trust me on something,” Thomas said. “There’s no language you can use that my sister didn’t hear when we were all growing up. Sometimes at breakfast.”

“Well,” Ryan said, “doing my best to clean it up, he said that if I didn’t have the balls to try to win the game right there, then I probably didn’t have another body part, either.”

The imagery made me laugh.

“You’re telling me that’s the sanitized version?”

“Well, there was one word that I’d never heard used as a noun, verb, and adjective in the same sentence,” Ryan said.

The TV screen behind him, at this end of the bar, was showing highlights of the game. By now I’d seen Billy McGee’s scramble and throw to Calvin Robeson about a dozen times. Fine with me. It came out the same way every time.

Ryan said, “He concluded by telling me that if he was willing to put his money where that particular body part was, then I should be, too.” Ryan grinned. “And damned if he wasn’t right.”

We all drank to that.