He’d been inside the cottage only once, when the Realtor took him on a final walk-through before he signed all the papers. It had the same square footage as the Malibu beach cottage he’d sold for an astonishing amount of money, most of which he’d sunk into this fortress.
Bobby Ray Dean couldn’t get any further away from the Tenderloin than this. He didn’t know who he was anymore. Somehow, Bobby Ray Dean had gotten lost between the Bird and Roman Velasco.
Grace had put the office in order by the end of the second week. She liked to stay busy. She was an active but quiet presence in the house, and he liked that. But this morning, she said she wanted to explain the new filing system. He had a feeling he knew where she was going with that. He’d said he didn’t have time.
A light tap at the studio door made him turn.
“Do you have time to talk now, Mr. Velasco?”
“Depends on what you want to talk about.” He faced her. “Don’t even think about quitting.”
“I told you I’d give you two weeks. You don’t really need a full-time personal assistant.”
“I like the way things are working.”
“I have a lot of downtime.”
“There are other things you could do for me.” He saw the wary look back in her eyes. She still didn’t trust him, but then, how well did they know one another? Everything had been strictly business since day one. Just the way they both wanted it. “Cooking, laundry, a little housecleaning.”
“You eat frozen meals. A cleaning service comes every Wednesday to pick up your laundry. And I’m sure you could easily find someone to change your sheets and make your bed.”
He sensed the innuendo. “I don’t usually invite women up here.” It was easier to leave a woman’s home than ask one to leave his.
“I’m not interested in your private life, Mr. Velasco.”
And yet she knew more about him than anyone else. Not that his paperwork told the whole story. “Can we cut the mister? Call me Roman.” He’d liked the formality at first. Now it annoyed him. “How about making a grocery run for me? I can’t spare the time right now. I’ll reimburse you for gas.”
“I’ll need a list.”
He gave a soft laugh. “You live by lists, don’t you?”
Her shoulders relaxed, and she smiled back. “You did say you wanted someone detail-oriented.”
“You probably know better than I do what I need.” He gave her two hundred dollars and told her the closest supermarket was in Malibu.
The phone rang several times while she was gone. He didn’t bother picking up. He ignored the front door chimes, too, until he realized it might be Grace. Opening the door, he took the two bags of groceries. “Any more?” She said she could manage and headed back to her car.
Sitting at the kitchen counter, Roman watched her empty the reusable bags. She stacked pizzas and frozen dinners in the freezer and put packaged salad mixes in the fridge. She’d bought orange juice, eggs, cottage cheese, and two jars of peaches, though he’d forgotten he needed them. She seemed to know what he liked.
Glancing at the clock, she quickly folded the bags. “I have to leave. I’m going to hit traffic.”
“Some calls came while you were gone. I let them go to voice mail, but—” She looked stressed, and it was almost five thirty. “They can wait until tomorrow.”
“Are you sure?”
“Go.”
She did. As the front door closed behind her, Roman felt the silence fill the house.
BOBBY RAY, AGE 15
Girls developed quick crushes on the new boy with dark hair and eyes, the skin tone that announced his mixed-race parentage. Boys noticed their girlfriends watching Bobby Ray Dean, but learned quickly that he never backed down from a fight—or lost one. He followed his own set of rules: don’t start a fight, but hit hard if one comes to you; knock your enemy down until he stays down; watch your back.
He was drawn to gang kids. They broke rules and had their own law. No one bothered them, and they always had money in their pockets. They looked and acted like family members. When Reaper, one of the older boys, offered him fifty bucks to deliver a package to a club on Broadway, Bobby Ray didn’t think twice about saying yes. He knew this was a test, a way in, a chance to belong somewhere.
Bobby Ray realized before he’d gone a block the whole job had been a setup. Someone had called the cops. Rather than dump the package, Bobby Ray did what he’d always done. He’d been running through the streets of San Francisco from his first nights in foster care. He knew every street, alley, and park. He knew how to get from one rooftop to another, go down a fire escape and scale a cyclone fence, swing over the top and drop to the other side. He delivered the package.