Having one’s office ‘invaded’ by a sitting Congressman and his stuck-up (or at least that’s how she seems) mother, would throw a lesser person off their stride. Having said sitting Congressman and his stuck-up (or at least that’s how she seems) mother wanting to hire the services of a small, family-operated PI business, that specializes mostly in catching cuckolders in flagrante (oh, the stories I could tell) and an occasional bail jumper, but hasn’t worked a ‘serious’ case in a while, to find the Sea Sprite bomber, when not even the Powers That Be know if it was random, racially motivated or an act of domestic or foreign terrorism, should throw a PI off their stride.

But, see, we Marses are made of sterner stuff than that, so here we all are, the matriarch of one family and the patriarch of another and their offspring, in Dad’s office, feeling our way as we go.

“That’s all I want, Mr. Mars,” Daniel Maloof says, looking slightly imploringly at Dad, his hands clasped between his legs; a pose, I’m half expecting Momsy to scold him for. Come to think of it, I’m surprised she hasn’t scolded me for leaning my butt on Dad’s desk instead of sitting ‘like a proper lady should’. “Find out who planted that bomb. Bring me the information. I did some checking. You’re well respected here.”

Whom exactly did the good Congressman talk to? And how old was the information he received?

Dad merely smiles and you have to know him to read the mix of disbelief, cynicism and slight derision in that rather bland-looking smile. “By some. You realize we won’t have access to the same forensic evidence as the police department.” I glare at him, and he quickly corrects, “Th-they won’t share that with us.”

“Maybe they’ll solve it,” Maloof offers with a deprecating grin. “Although I have my doubts.” He pauses, then, “This is a problem for my family, Mr. Mars.” His eyes meet mine. “We’re choosing to throw money at it.”

I bet Momsy and sonny Maloof see dollar signs in my eyes, thinking Dad and I can be bought with enough money. Here’s where they’re wrong, like most people. If they see dollar signs it’s because their money will not only cover the expenses on this case, but others cases as well, when we help people that cannot afford to throw their money at anyone, since they barely have some to spend on themselves. And we cannot be bought. No money in the world can do that.

“Are you interested?” Maloof asks and I look at Dad from the corner of my eye, making a good effort of smiling without conveying my distaste.

“Of course,” Dad agrees, not too eager and not too dismissive. Just the right response. And then dives right in. “Is there a reason to suspect that your brother was the target?”

Maloof makes a hand shrug. “Only in the broader sense.”

Having remained silent throughout the entire exchange, not counting the initial greeting and the judgmental arching of an elegantly plucked brow that spoke volumes, and probably bored with just sitting there making disapproving faces, Momsy Maloof chooses that moment to speak.

“Excuse me,” she addresses me. “I would like some tea.”

Is that a condescending tone I’m detecting or is my, I wouldn’t call it dislike, at least not yet, but something along those line, coloring my perception? She’s certainly proving to be one of those matriarchs who think the only women capable of doing anything efficient and noteworthy besides turning oxygen into carbon dioxide are them and no one else. She probably thinks I’m Dad’s secretary or a pity job, since I’m blonde and, hence, probably not all that bright.

Maloof says something in Arabic, which Logan would probably understand, but I’m too lazy to take him up on his offer to even teach me the basics.

“Mrs. Maloof.” There’s a slight bite in Dad’s voice, so it’s not just me. “My daughter is—”

“More than happy to get you some tea,” I quickly interject. It wouldn’t do to alienate the matriarch who obviously wears pants in this tableau. I smile, all teeth, no warmth. “I hope English Breakfast is your thing.”

Even if it isn’t, it’s the only tea we have, so you’ll just have to suck it up. Think of England, or something.

Dad clears his throat—he’s uncannily good when it comes to reading my mind—and turns his eyes back to Maloof. The male one. “But as for a specific reason,” then he looks at Momsy, “someone might want your son harmed?”

Maloof sighs, starts listing, “We’re wealthy, I’m an Arab-American congressman...” The list isn’t that long. “Uh, I suppose there’s the matter of your rate?”

“It’s 300 an hour plus a 5,000 retainer,” I quickly say, then flash a sheepish smile, since I’m still standing in the doorway and not even close to bringing Momsy Maloof her bloody tea.

“She does the books,” Dad explains, lying through his teeth.

Basic math is one thing, book-keeping is a different animal all together. An accountant recommended by one of Logan’s does our books. She’s our Mac the Second, armed with a pocket calculator and a spreadsheet (probably not, but what the hell do I know about what accountants use to make sense of all those numbers?), and probably the only reason we’re still afloat without an outside party (probably Logan, because he’d never let us go under, even if it meant constant money-related fights) providing capital.

I nod and grin. “And she’ll be right back with your tea, Mrs. Maloof. Would you like some as well, Congressman?”

Aren’t I just the darling?



That evening, after spending more than an hour on the beach, watching the sunset cuddled in Logan’s arms, while Pony ran in and out of the surf like possessed and is now all gunked-up and stinky and in dire need of a long wash, the three of us walk a little further down the boardwalk.

We didn’t discuss it, I never said a word—my man just gets me—but leash firmly in Logan’s hands, so Pony doesn’t get any ideas about spreading his pungent aroma on me or an innocent passerby, we find ourselves crossing the Sea Sprite parking lot.

If Neptune is the official West Coast capital of spring break, the Sea Sprite motel is its national monument. Or was, before someone blew it up.

The main U-shaped building, hosting the rooms with doorways facing the pool and, depending on the room, the beach as well, is still intact, but no lights are blazing, there are no drunk spring breakers spilling out of doors, no deafening music sounding from the patio and the rooms, and the motel sign is turned off.

The smell of smoke still hangs in the air currents, and I could swear I can see the wisps of it in the glare of the police floodlights shedding their stark light onto the charred skeleton that used to be the low-level annex housing the motel reception, making the shards of glass glisten and glow like stars in the sky.

The image of similarly glistening shards of glass, raining down on me, catching the light of the afternoon sun, superimposes itself in my mind’s eye, the last image from my dream the other night, and I reach for Logan’s hand. Seeking his warmth, the connection and the reassurance.

He squeezes briefly, his larger palm engulfing mine, before our fingers entwine.

He looks down at me. “You okay?”

Am I? Or is my mind sliding down a slippery slope until I won’t be able to distinguish between dreams and reality. Still, I nod feebly, then point to a lone figure observing the police proceedings with a clinical eye from behind the yellow tape.

We walk, hand-in-hand to where Dad stands, one of the few people on our side of the tape, that aren’t here for kicks, sensationalism, or Instagram pics.

“End of an era,” I say, and he slowly turns to look at us. “I’ve photographed some enthusiastic acts of adultery here.”

“Hey, honey.” He smiles and gives me a one-armed hug, complete with a head kiss. The smile turns into a grin as he extends his hand to Logan. “Logan, I heard you’re planning on making an honest woman out of my daughter.”

In a display of uncanny SEAL ability, Logan smoothly transfers Pony’s leash from his right hand to our joined grip (I can’t seem to let go of his hand, and I don’t really want to), and clasps Dad’s. “I believe it’s the other way around, Keith.”

As Dad chuckles, I beam up at Logan, then blink rapidly, momentarily blinded by a flash going off. “Look at all these reporters.”

Logan sighs, his adversity for reporters even greater than mine and Dad’s combined. “Congressman’s brother. The press will be all over this.”

He has first-hand experience at how that shit goes.

I nod toward a doughy man with a logo-ed ballcap, enthusiastically gesturing while talking to a uniform. “Who’s he?”

“Pizza guy,” Dad explains as the man in question tries to read the cop’s notes upside down. “He just left the office, when the bomb went off. Took some shrapnel in his back. He’s been all over the news.”

Dad’s tone screams ‘media whore’ and I lean toward agreeing. Some people would do a lot to get their shot at five minutes of fame, and if they don’t have to do anything more than take some stray shrapnel, you can be sure they’ll milk it for all they’re worth.

“And that?” Logan points toward a girl with long hair, slowly walking around the empty hull of the reception.

She tucks her hair behind her ears before bending down and picking something up. I wait for her to call to a cop, maybe for a cop to ask her what she’s doing, but she just slips whatever she’s picked up in her pocket and goes back to her search of the floor. She looks too young to be a cop, she’s not in any sort of gear...So what is she doing inside the secure perimeter without supervision and without anyone giving a shit about her being there?

“The owner’s daughter,” Dad supplies. “She was outside in her car when it happened.”

She’s obviously uninjured and has a slight reason to be where she is. Still, it seems weird, but what do I know, I’m just a PI after all.

“So,” Dad continues, “since you two, well, three...” He leans down to give Pony a scratch before I can warn him, so I simply offer him a wet-wipe dug out from the depths of my bag when he grimaces. “Since you were so kind to spare me the trek to your love-nest, I can now invite you to the celebratory dinner I mentioned yesterday.”

“Hmmm.” I exchange a look with Logan. We’re not really dressed for dinner, thanks to our cuddle on the beach, and there’s Pony in all his disheveled and smelly state.

Dad gives me a tender shoulder-shove. “Mama Leone’s has outside seating. I’m sure we can find a spot far enough from other patrons that Pony can accompany us.”

Logan lightly swings our joined hands. “I wouldn’t say no to penne all’Amatriciana.”

Dad nods enthusiastically, already drooling at the thought. “And manicotti.” He gives me another shoulder-shove, not so tender this time. “How about pollo alla romana? Meatball pizza? Come on, daughter of mine, you can have your choice of dessert. May I suggest tiramisù?” And he skips, literally skips, cane and all, down the street.

“There better be two desserts,” I mutter, just to be ornery, as Logan, Pony and I follow at a more leisurely pace.

Logan leans close, his breath tickling my ear, as he whispers, “I may be persuaded to let you nibble on a cannoli later.”

I flutter my lashes up at him coyly, already imagining the things I will do to him later. “You should know by now that my powers of persuasion are legendary.”

“I know, my love,” he murmurs with a wistful smile. “Believe me, I know.”

“You two stop flirting and get a move on!” Dad yells. How did he get down the street so fast anyway? “I’m hungry!”