“Ollie?”
“Beau,” he breathes in answer, and the second I hear his voice, I know. I just know.
“Don’t tell me you were just going to call me,” I beg anyway, praying for an explanation. “Please don’t tell me that.”
“I was just going to call you.”
“No,” I whisper.
“How do you know?” he asks.
“Cartwright called me.”
“Fuck. I’m on my way there now, Beau.”
“Where is there?”
“A hotel downtown.”
“No.” God damn it, I should have met Dad for dinner. His heart. I knew there was something wrong. But Doc checked him over. I look at James, and the moment he catches my expression, he withdraws, standing down, his ego wilting. I can’t find the words to tell him what’s wrong, and he sees my struggle.
He takes my cell and puts it to his ear. “It’s James,” he says shortly, holding on to my shoulder. “What’s going on?” He inhales in an obvious attempt to gather patience. “Now’s not the time to throw your ego around, Burrows. Whatever you were doing at Hiatus this evening, I couldn’t give a fuck. Whatever you hoped to achieve sending Beau that picture, I couldn’t give a fuck. What the fuck’s going on?”
Dead. He’s dead. He’s dead and Ollie, an FBI agent, is on his way there. A journalist has called me. It wasn’t a heart attack? A seizure? A stroke? I startle, and it’s the oddest feeling, like a switch just flipped inside of me. Like I’m going into business mode, except I am not a cop anymore, and my father isn’t any old victim. I grab my phone from James, and this time he lets me take it. “Why are you going there, Ollie?” I ask. “And why the hell are journalists calling me?”
“Witnesses are claiming to have heard a gunshot.”
“A single gunshot?” I ask robotically.
“A single gunshot,” he confirms. “I’m just relaying what I’ve been told. There’s no sign of a struggle. Nothing taken from his person.”
“So it’s someone he knows?”
“He knows a lot of people, Beau.”
“I know,” I say, starting to pace.Thinking, thinking, thinking.“The gun?”
“Missing.”
“Shell casing?”
“No shell casing.” He doesn’t hold back at all, telling me things he really shouldn’t be telling me. Because I’m no longer a cop. “I’m so sorry, Beau,” Ollie says, his voice soft. “I know you and Tom had a love-hate relationship, but he was still your dad.”
I swallow, nodding. “I’m on my way. What’s the name of the hotel?”
“Beau, you know that can’t happen.”
“I—”
“I’ll call you later, I promise.”
I take a deep breath and reason with myself. I need to play ball. Keep Ollie on side. “Okay,” I say reluctantly. “As soon as you have more information.”
“You got it.” He hangs up, and I take my cell to my mouth and nibble the corner as James moves in, his arms reaching for me. I step away, not looking at him.
“I’ll take you home,” he says.
“No.” I face him. “I don’t want to go home. Why would I want to go home?”