As Good as Dead Page 2
“You don’t really think that, do you?”
“No. But like I told you, I’m worried.”
Sam again said nothing. She shared the sentiment.
“I’ll give her a call,” Maggie said. “I’ll keep you posted.”
“Thanks. Hey, Maggie?”
“Yeah.”
“You think there’s any chance he’s back and just holed up in the dark playing video games or watching 24 on a loop?”
“No. Connie let me in. House is empty, car’s gone, looks unlived in.”
Sam sighed.
“I’ll keep you posted,” Maggie said again, then hung up, leaving Sam to eat a so-so supper while trying to tell herself, just as Maggie had, that this wasn’t like last time.
Chapter Two
Friday, October 18
7:48 a.m.
“MAGGIE, ARE YOU sure about this?”
She turned from the passenger seat. “I’m sure, Russell.”
“It’s just, the last time you were in Mexico, things didn’t go so well.”
“You’re telling me.”
“Aren’t you wanted by the federales?”
“That was Acapulco, not Tijuana,” she said, looking out the window at the Santa Monica skyline.
“You trying to convince me or you?” Russell asked.
Maggie looked back at him. “You remember what I told you on Skyler’s patio?”
“You mean right before you committed a felony by breaking into his house?”
She set her tongue in her jaw.
“I remember,” Russell said. “You said if the situation was reversed, there was nothing Jackson wouldn’t do to save you.”
She nodded.
“But that was different, Maggie. Back then, we thought he’d been targeted—we thought Skyler had hired somebody to take him out—or he was part of some Grays-Silvaz gang war collateral damage. That’s not the case now.”
“You don’t know that.”
“You told me what Reggie said.”
Maggie sighed as Russell turned off Ocean Avenue. “Look, I know it’s not the same. And I know what Reggie said, but . . .”
“You feel you owe him yet.”
“It’s not that I owe him, Russell. It’s that, even with all we’ve been through and with how we left things, he’s still my friend. And he needs help.”
“You’re sure that’s it?”
Maggie swallowed. “That’s it.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
Russell nodded. “I don’t like it, but I get it. Just promise me you’ll be careful.”
“Of course.”
“You’re still my friend too.”
She smiled. “I know. There’s safety in numbers. And Ashley’s a cop. You saw her at Petrovich’s place and the hospital. Would you cross her?”
That brought a grin to Russell’s unshaven and handsome face. “No I would not.”
“I’ll be fine.”
He nodded resignedly.
“Thanks for the lift.”
“Call me when you get back?”
“You got it.”
He stuck out a fist, and Maggie banged her knuckles into it. She hoisted a backpack off the floor and opened her door. She turned to wink at Russell. “Later.”
He nodded again as she closed the door.
She took a deep breath and started across the pier toward the two blond women standing by the parking area gate.
You’re sure that’s it?
She ignored Russell’s question and her answer and forced an upbeat smile to her face as she nodded at Ashley and Sam.
* * *
Four days ago . . .
Monday, October 14
6:23 p.m.
“SORRY I’M late,” Sam said as she exited the main doors of Santa Monica-UCLA Medical Center.
Maggie stood up, having been leaning against a column that supported a carport that fit at a resort hotel. “Goes with the territory, I imagine,” she said, noting Sam’s purple hospital scrubs. “You could have changed.”
“I figured you were waiting already.”
Maggie waved her off.
“My car or yours?” Sam asked.
“My car’s a Yamaha motorcycle, so . . .”
“Mine,” Sam said with a small laugh.
Maggie was struck with the same observance she’d had talking to Sam on the phone a few times—she was cute. Maggie couldn’t put her finger on it, but she could see why Jackson would have been attracted to her—even if she wasn’t exactly his type. And evidence seemed to be mounting—Sam being his “nurse” after he got shot, her being vitally interested in his survival when the Russians got ahold of him in the spring, her being one of Ashley’s contacts now—that she and Jackson had been, at least on some level, involved.
Maggie followed Sam a block to her car, a blue Ford Fusion. It had been a crazy weekend. In addition to taping several segments for various cable networks about the president’s new immigration policy, she’d been working on an initial draft of a speech she’d been asked to give to the journalism department at her alma mater next month, and had fended off several advances from a would-be Romeo who had just moved into her apartment. And that was all on top of wondering about Jackson’s voyage to Mexico and waiting to hear back from Mauricio, a beat reporter for Frontera in Tijuana and a contact of Maggie’s source, Anapaula, with El Universo in Mexico City. She’d called Anapaula the previous Thursday, after talking to Sam and Ashley. It’d taken till Friday to get ahold of Mauricio, and he hadn’t gotten back to her until just that morning. Maggie had called Ashley and Sam immediately, prompting her and Sam to seek out Reggie—if he was back from Nebraska—with Ashley waiting anxiously for a report.
The sun was out but the air was cool. From inside Sam’s Focus, that didn’t matter. The views were great as they cut over to the coast and headed north toward Cameron’s, the beachside restaurant owned and operated by Jackson’s best friend, Reggie Cameron. An awkward silence pervaded the ride, and Maggie was glad when Sam turned—albeit a little delicately—into the parking lot of Cameron’s. They had not called ahead, so it was iffy if Reggie was there and could make time for them if he was, but some things needed to be discussed in person.
A young woman in a skirt and light sweater greeted them when they entered the foyer. Cameron’s was an upscale bistro upstairs and a casual, open to the beach café downstairs. It featured something for everyone, and the food was good. At least on Maggie’s few visits.
“Just two of you?” the hostess asked. A gold nameplate identified her as Kellyn.
“We’re actually here to see Mr. Cameron, if he’s available,” Maggie said.
“Do you have an appointment?” Kellyn asked, immediately frowning.
“No, but if you could tell him Maggie and Sam are here, I think he’ll make time for us.”
“Okay, I’ll let him know. You can have a seat over there,” she said, pointing toward a bench by the window, “or you can wait at the bar if you’d like.”
They sat on the bench, and Kellyn reached into her dais for a phone. Her conversation was quiet and clipped, but she announced that Mr. Cameron would be right along. Less than a minute later, he climbed the steps from the basement.
At six-three, two-fifty, arms marked with faded tats and bulging with muscles, Reggie Cameron cut an intimidating figure. He offset it with a grin, usually, but his face was straight as he approached Maggie and Sam. “This can’t be good,” he said.
“Why’s that?” Sam asked.
He dismissed the remark with a wave. “Come down to my office?”
“Thanks,” Maggie said.
“You all hungry?”
“No,” Maggie said.
Sam shook her head.
“All right, follow me.”
He led them downstairs, through the dining room and a hallway, and into his private office looking out on the beach. In addition to a spacious desk and traditional office accoutrements, it featured a full-si
zed couch and big screen TV, a table and chairs, and a private bathroom. He offered them seats on the couch and spun one of the chairs at the table around, straddling it backward.
“I don’t suppose this is because you had a rude waiter or found something suspicious in your salads.”
“No,” Maggie said.
“I told her what you told me about Jackson,” Sam said.
“We need more, Reggie,” Maggie said.
He tipped his head to the side. “There ain’t more.”
“Come on.”
Reggie extended his palms. “It’s like I told Sam, he said he needed to get away, needed some solitude.”
“In Mexico?”
“Doesn’t know anybody there, doesn’t speak enough Spanish to find a bathroom. I guess he figured that’s away.”
“He hates Mexico.”
Reggie nodded.
“Have you heard anything more from him?” Sam asked.
“Not since the postcard I showed you,” he said, cutting his eyes to Maggie.
“She told me.”
“I just got back from Nebraska last night, so I’ve been scrambling to catch up here, but he hasn’t called, left me a message. He wasn’t crashing on my couch last night.” He shrugged. “You check his house?”
“Two hours ago. He’s gone.”
Another shrug.
“I had a source down in Mexico, from last time,” Maggie said. “She put me in touch with a reporter with Frontera, who checked the wire. Reggie, Jack was arrested last month. On the fourteenth. That’s not long after you said he went down there.”
Reggie took the news with a nod. “Arrested for what?”
“Drunk and disorderly conduct at a bullfight.”
Reggie nodded again.
“What, that’s it?”
“I don’t know what you want me to tell you.”
“Jackson doesn’t drink, Reggie.”
“I know that.”
“He’s always been sober as a judge. But I had Connie let me into his house again today, after I heard from this guy in Tijuana. I looked a little closer than the first time. He had half a case of beer in his refrigerator, a couple folded up boxes in his garage, and a bottle of tequila in his cupboard.”
Reggie was blank.
“Then he runs off to Mexico, a place he loathes, a place he wouldn’t spit on if it was burning to the ground, and a week after getting there, he’s arrested for being drunk and disorderly. And now it’s been a month, and nobody’s heard from him. And all you’ve got is a shrug?”
Reggie looked away.
“Did you know about any of this?” Sam asked. “That he was drinking?”
“Yeah,” he said softly.
“What?” Maggie asked.
He sighed. “J’s been messed up, man. I mean, he’s been depressed for a while, but it’s been bad lately. Really bad.”
Maggie leaned forward, doing her best to control her frustration. “Then what are you doing here?”
“Where should I be?”
“In Mexico. You’re his best friend. Go get him.”
“He made it pretty clear when he left he didn’t want to be got.”
“So what?”
“Maggie, I get it, okay. Your response was my response, but . . . J’s a grown man.”
“A grown man who’s throwing his life away.”
“Yeah, well, there comes a time sometimes when you have to let somebody go.”
Maggie sat back. She turned to Sam, saw the confusion in her eyes too. She turned back. “Are you serious, Reggie?”
“Look, I tried talking to him. Multiple times.” He shook his head. “I don’t know if I’m too close, I don’t know if I’m not close enough, or I don’t know if he’s just tuned me out, but I might as well have been talking to the wall. There’s nothing I could say to change his mind. Nothing I could do to get him out of the funk. And if I drove to Mexico, threw him in the back of my Hummer, and dragged him back here, he’d leave again tomorrow.” He exhaled, looking down for nearly a full minute. When he looked up, his voice was thick. “Sometimes, if somebody’s bound and determined to wreck themselves . . .” He exhaled again. “Sometimes you gotta let ’em. Sometimes that’s the only way they can ever get to a place where they can be fixed.”
Maggie’s voice matched Reggie’s. “And what if he gets wrecked beyond fixing?”
Reggie opened his mouth but said nothing.
“What about his grandpa?” Sam asked, her voice on the edge of breaking too.
“Last I heard, he was in Houston visiting his brother Donny. Been there at least a month.”
“Does he know where Jackson is?”
“J said something about telling him, but I don’t know.”
Maggie looked away, waiting for either the sadness or the anger to win out.
Reggie broke the silence. “I don’t like it any better than either of you do, but it’s like I said, J’s a grown man. We can talk to him, try to persuade him, pray for him. But in the end, he’s going to do what he wants to do.” He stood. “I’m sorry, but that really is all I know. I gotta get back to work.”
Maggie stood too. “Why were you in Nebraska?”
He turned around. “My grandma died.”
“I’m sorry,” Sam said, also on her feet.
“Thanks.”
“Reggie, I don’t . . .” Maggie said. “I don’t mean to be indelicate, but is it possible your emotions are out of whack and you’re not thinking clearly about this?”
He swallowed, then took a non-threatening step toward her. “Yeah, my emotions are out of whack. They’ve been out of whack for a while, mostly because of Jack. And I’ve thought through this and analyzed this from every angle and in every frame of mind, and the facts don’t change. I’m praying for him constantly, but right now, there’s nothing else I can do. I’m sorry, but I have to go.”
With that, he turned and left.
Chapter Three
Friday, October 18
7:53 a.m.
HILLARY MCKENZIE USUALLY enjoyed the drive through Malibu and along the ocean on the Pacific Coast Highway. Today, however, bumper-to-bumper on the 101 and a rollover on Malibu Canyon Road had her feeling frustrated—and in danger of being late. She pushed the accelerator of her Lexus ISC 350 toward the floor and careened around a slow-moving delivery truck.
It wasn’t just traffic making her frustrated. It was Jackson. What was he doing in Mexico? And had he really started drinking, after being a teetotaler all his life, after giving her so much flack for an occasional cocktail or glass of wine? Was it possible he was that depressed?
Truth be told, Jackson had been frustrating her since day one. They’d met on Memorial Day when Jackson’s brother Grant had brought her, his girlfriend of a month, to meet the family. It had been another year and a half before Grant had proposed, but already that Memorial Day Hillary had believed there might be something special between her and Grant, and had been looking forward to meeting his parents and brother. Especially the brother. Hillary had two sisters, and they were great, but she thought a brother-in-law might be nice someday. And Grant couldn’t stop talking about his big brother, Jackson.
Hillary’s first thought as she rounded the corner was that Grant’s big brother—who stood by the grill, twirling a spatula—was kind of cute.
“Hey, Jack,” Grant said, climbing onto the deck.
“Grant.”
“Jack, this is Hillary.”
Hillary extended her hand and looked into cobalt blue eyes. She couldn’t identify just what it was about him—his carefree “Hi,” his relaxed demeanor, his rugged (at least compared to smooth-shaven Grant) good looks. It was frustrating. She hadn’t expected to be attracted to her boyfriend’s brother.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Hillary said, feeling an upturn in the corner of her mouth. She wasn’t usually drawn to shaggy hair or scruffy jaws, and while Jackson maybe wasn’t cover-boy handsome, he was definitely good-looking. She remembered
wondering, as she gave him a finger wave and followed Grant to meet his grandpa, why he didn’t have a girlfriend.
She’d found out why throughout the afternoon when Jackson proved, despite his initial allure, to be thoroughly vexing. Cavalier, flippant, disrespectful. What seemed like getting off on the wrong foot had turned into an at times bitter rivalry between the two of them. Jackson never missed a chance to take a dig at her, her chosen profession, her family, or her relationship with Grant. As flummoxing as his logic and his arguments could be, Hillary couldn’t deny that somehow, in a twisted, only-Jackson-would-think-of-that sort of way, they kind of made sense too. And no matter how many times she proved herself to him, bested him in a debate, or seemed to parry his verbal thrust, he always squirmed free. As things got serious between her and Grant, Hillary questioned how she and Jackson would ever coexist as family.
That had never happened, of course, because Grant and his parents had been killed two and a half years ago. Hillary had been devastated, but had finally found closure, finally found a way to move forward with her life. Jackson, it seemed, had not.
Empathy was not one of Hillary’s stronger suits, and she couldn’t understand—his grief notwithstanding—how Jackson could truly be on the brink of throwing his life away, as it sounded like he was. As much bad blood as there was between them, she couldn’t stand by and let that happen.
Besides, she owed him. A little more than a year ago, he had saved her life—multiple times. He’d gone to great lengths, risking his life and future for her. His actions still amazed her, and defied everything she’d otherwise believed about him. To this day, she still questioned if for two and a half years she had misjudged him. And if she had once, was it possible she was doing so again?