“The whole fucking bar?” Detective Bee’s eyes glazed over. “Who leaves someone a whole fucking bar? And here I was just trying to make a little extra cash.” There was a hint of bitterness in his voice. He had every right to. Working full-time as a cop, then literally burning the midnight oil to educate his kid.
“Jacob left me a whole fucking bar, Bee.” Ian reached for his back pocket. He was so fixated on Jake’s letter that he’d forgotten the bundle of papers. The ones who named him owner. Although Emmet Meyers would vehemently disagree, the smaller handwritten letter was a higher priority. At least to Ian. It sealed the deal. Not the land deeds, business license, and liquor license.
“They could’ve blown away. The gusts get mighty brutal right now. You could’ve lost that gay bar lock, stock, and barrel.”
He smiled to himself. “I’m sure Jake’s lawyer has duplicates.” Jake’s final thoughts would not. Sharing what he’d kept safe in the pocket near his chest. Closest to his heart. He wanted to tell Bee that Jacob forgave him. Asked him to look after his dream. Their place.
“I don’t get you, boy.” He growled. “Being so careless with a jackpot like that. Are you happy or sad?
“I’d like to know that too, Ian,” Ricky demanded as he stepped out of the shadows.
“I was gonna put out an APB on you.” Bee bowed. “Good to know you’re safe, Ricardo.”
“Thank you.” He stood beside Ian. Ian reached out to hug him, but he quickly stepped back. “Call me Ricky.”
“I’ll stick to Ricardo.”
“Get used to it.” Ian winked.
“I’m glad I caught you, Detective Bee.” Ricky’s nostrils flared at his attempt to flirt. “A reporter I met told me about the Abbots. How they’re the local mafia family, like the Genovese in New York. How they’re interested in Fantabulous!”
Bee rolled his eyes. “I bet your new buddy is Sebastian Crowe. I’ve read his articles. What he didn’t share was that he’s a supporter of Juliet Jones. Wesley Abbot’s only rival for Councilman. You won’t miss her. Even taller than Crowe. She’s a Democrat like—”
“Us.” Ian blurted as he grabbed Ricky’s hand. This time, his partner/boyfriend/lover didn’t scare him off. The opposite, he looked at him full of hope, full of love. “Times have changed.”
“There’s a poster of Wesley Abbot here.” Ricky frantically searched the wall. The turbulent gusts Bee warned him about ripped something off it just as he pointed at it. It flew away like a thief in the night. “H-H-He…”
“Wesley Abbot? A mobster?” Bee roared with laughter. “I shook his hand during his speech on the boardwalk last month. He lacks a sharp tongue. A moderate. And with those glasses? He’ll never be a sharpshooter.”
Ricky nudged at the space the poster occupied. “You’ve met Wesley Abbot and knew Jake personally, Detective. Don’t you see the resemblance?”
“No, I don’t.” He shrugged. “I’m sorry, son.”
“Is that why you were looking for the poster?” Ian believed him, but they had more important problems.
“You can see for yourself,” he whimpered. Ricky let go of Ian’s hand and stepped in the wind’s direction. “I’ll look for it.”
“Relax, Ricky. It’s just a poster.”
“He probably paid someone to cover Venice with them,” Bee reassured. “It’s too dark to see anyway. We’ll see it tomorrow.”
Ian saluted him. His calming presence was sorely missed since Glock wrapped. He thought about calling his only father figure since his own father had betrayed him. When he’d hit rock bottom before he said goodbye to Hollywood, Fantabulous!, and Jake. But the TV show was their only bond. Now, it was Jake’s murder that tied them together. He considered informing him about the letter, but it held no clues. No Abbot mafia family. Only one former boyfriend, guilty of being a jackass. Then his Glock instincts took over. He wanted to flee Venice. It had the same urgency as the first time. Only he had Ricky, which was a plus and a minus. “We’ll see it tomorrow?” He whispered.
“I want to go home, Ian.” Ricky consulted his Mickey Mouse watch. “With no traffic, we’ll be in Palm Springs in two hours. I told everyone we’d be back to fill them in. They’ll understand if it’s next week.”
“I’m sorry, Ricardo,” he murmured, “I insist you enjoy Los Angeles hospitality a little longer. Especially now…”
“Especially now?” Ricky said, trembling. “What does he mean, Ian? Let’s go home.”
Ian wrapped his arms around him to warm him, to assure him everything would be okay. “You can go home, Ricky. You can get a limo. Not worry about driving for once.”
“We’ll go home together.” He yawned. “You can call Mr. Meyers. I’ll call Kitty. We don’t need to stay.”
“I can’t go home.” Ian’s stomach sank as did the realization.
“Why?” Ricky looked daggers at the detective.
“Cui bono.” He said. Bee nodded at him apologetically.
“Who benefits?” Ricky sleepily stammered. “Seb explained it. Who benefits from Jacob Monk’s murder? The Abbots! He wouldn’t sell Fantabulous! Not in a million years. What does that have to do with us?”
“The Abbots didn’t get Fantabulous!” He faced his old friend. “As you said, Detective, I got a whole fucking bar. I’m your prime suspect.”
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