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E.L. Turner glanced at the clock again. The “Welcome Back” banner was in place, the office had been cleaned. No trace of the old crime scene remained. All that was missing was the big guy himself—the one whose name was on the door of the private detective agency.
Maybe he wasn’t coming back today after all. He’d said he was getting bored at home and ready to go back to work, but he could’ve changed his mind. Only . . . shouldn’t he call and let his associate know?
E.L. was just starting to worry about a possible car accident when the phone rang.
“Lionel Whitney Investigations; E.L. Turner speaking. How may I help you?”
"Hi, E.L., it’s me,” Lionel said.
“Hey, partner.” E.L. heard traffic noise in the background. “You didn’t get in a fender-bender, did you?”
“What? No. Why would you think that?”
“Oh, just my overactive imagination, I guess. So where are you?”
“At a pay phone. I stopped for gas on my way to work, and . . . ” Lionel paused. “I was thinking maybe it’d be better if I start tomorrow, instead.”
“Your mother didn’t call you again, did she?” Mrs. Whitney was still trying to convince her son that he should find a safer job. E.L. worried that sooner or later she might wear him down.
“Well, yes, but that’s not why—” A truck or bus rumbled by just then, drowning out whatever else Lionel had to say. “—tomorrow. I’ll be ready then.”
“I hope so,” E.L. remarked, “because Mike said he’s stopping by here tomorrow morning to see you, remember?”
If Officer Mike Donovan couldn’t get Lionel to show up, he didn’t know who could. Their friend was the one Lionel had called for help, not 911, after he’d been shot. And Mike had not only visited him while he was in the hospital, but also helped catch the guy who’d shot him.
“Oh, that’s right,” Lionel said. “Okay, tomorrow for sure.”
“All right, then.”
“E.L., you’re not mad at me, are you?”
“No, of course not.” It wasn’t Lionel’s fault, he knew that. He’d had a bad scare, after all, right here in this office. “Tomorrow’s fine.”
“Still, I feel bad about deserting you. Why don’t you come over to my house tonight for dinner? I’ll order something, and we can watch . . . well, there must be some sporting event on TV.”
“Yeah, Lakers,” E.L. remembered. "Home game."
“Great. So Chinese takeout and the Laker game,” Lionel said. “About six-thirty? How does that sound?”
“Sounds good.” He could talk to Lionel in person, see how he was really doing. “Thanks, buddy.”
After they hung up, E.L. sighed. “Well, at least he got as far as the gas station,” he said to himself, letting out some pent-up sarcasm. “Who knows? Maybe tomorrow he’ll actually make it into the parking lot.”
****
Lionel woke up on the couch with a start, shaking, gasping for breath. He looked at his blue button-down shirt, but it was clean. No blood.
Leaning forward, he put his head in his hands and tried to control his breathing. Just a nightmare. Except it wasn’t the middle of the night. He glanced at his watch. It was time to order dinner, and pull himself together before E.L. arrived.
In the kitchen, he splashed cold water on his face, then found the menu from his favorite Chinese restaurant. After calling in his delivery order, he returned to the living room to wait.
He had to go back to work tomorrow. No more excuses. He didn’t know why he was so reluctant to go there. He loved his office; loved everything about it. Nothing bad had happened there in the past two weeks. E.L. was being nice about it so far, but Lionel knew he must be getting tired of his behavior.
Almost as tired of it as he was.
A loud knock on the front door made him jump. It was an actual delivery guy out there, he reminded himself; probably someone he knew by name. Not two ex-cons trying to trick him into opening the door.
Still, despite his own annoyance, he had to check the peephole before he opened the door a crack.
“Hey, Mr. Whitney,” the delivery guy—the owner’s teenage nephew—greeted him.
“Tommy, hi.” Lionel opened the door the rest of the way. “How are you?”
“Good, thanks.” Tommy Chen handed him a big plastic bag. “Are you okay? I heard you got shot, man.”
“Yes, right here.” He pointed to the exact location, figuring someone Tommy’s age would be curious. “But I’m fine now.”
“Wow, that’s scary,” Tommy said. “I’m glad you didn’t die.”
“Thank you. So am I.” He gave him a tip. “Tell your uncle I said ni hao."
“I will. Thanks.”
Lionel had all the food set out on the coffee table by the time the doorbell rang.
“Hey, let’s get this party started,” E.L. said as he walked in. He was wearing a Lakers cap and carrying a bag. “I brought dessert.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” Lionel told him, locking the door.
“It was the least I could do.” He put a box of Girl Scout cookies on the table. “Besides, you know what they say about Chinese food—we’ll be hungry again in about an hour, anyway.”
“That’s true.” Lionel went to the kitchen. “Go ahead and turn on the game.” He returned with a bottle of beer for E.L. and a pot of herbal tea for himself. Something to settle his nerves.
“Thanks, man.” E.L. looked up from the TV. “Aren’t you a little overdressed for a basketball game?"
He’d forgotten to change out of his work clothes this morning, Lionel realized. At least he’d taken off his tie. “Only if I were playing,” he said, embarrassed.
E.L. laughed. “I guess we can listen to the pregame show.” He sat on the couch. “Which one’s mine?”
“The one on the right. The number five.”
“You remembered.” E.L. grabbed his plate and fork. “Any fortune cookies?”
“Of course,” Lionel said, picking up an egg roll with his chopsticks.
E.L. took one of the cookies. “I don’t know why I even read these things. They’re never true.” He opened the package and cracked the cookie, pulling out the little slip of paper inside. “‘It’s not the destination, it’s the journey.’ Hmm. Well, maybe they finally got one right.”
“Why? Are you going somewhere?” Lionel asked.
“I was thinking a little trip might be nice. Just getting out of town.”
Lionel’s heart skipped a beat. “You’re not in trouble again, are you?”
“Of course not. Calm down.” E.L. smiled. “I just meant, like, a little vacation or something. We could use a change of scenery, don’t you think?”
“We?”
“I see I need to start from the beginning.” E.L. pulled a folded piece of newspaper from his jacket pocket. “I won big at the track last week.”
Lionel stared at him. “You were gambling again?”
“Just one race. And I didn’t even call my bookie. I went over there myself.”
“When?”
“Friday afternoon,” E.L. said. “I know, I know. I closed up shop a little early, but it was a slow day, and . . . there was this longshot in the eighth."
“You left work to go bet on a horse?” Lionel asked. He gulped some more tea, still waiting for the calming effect.
“Not just any horse. Look at this.” E.L. put the race result on the table in front of him. “Check out the name.”
“Early L.T.” Lionel glanced at the odds. “Wow.”
“I know. When a horse has your name, that’s like a sign from the universe, right? And he won, see?”
“Well, that’s great,” Lionel had to admit. “But you do realize it was just a fluke, don’t you? I mean, I’m sure you’re aware that gambling can become a serious addiction.”
“Yes, I’m aware, but thanks for the public service message.” E.L. resumed eating. “All I’m saying is, now that I have this unexpected little windfall, it might be nice to do something fun with it. You know, like get out of town.”
“You probably do deserve some time off,” Lionel agreed. “But I don’t think I’ve earned it yet. I’ve had too much time off already.”
“Lionel, it’s not like you were vacationing in Tahiti,” E.L. pointed out. “You’ve been recovering from a life-threatening injury. Plus doing some work from home. If anyone deserves to get away from here, it’s you.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“That’s more like it.” E.L. glanced at him. “You been getting any sleep lately?”
“Some.” Lionel picked up a fortune cookie and opened the plastic wrapper. “Why?”
“You look beat, man. I’m worried about you.”
“I’m all right, E.L.,” he insisted. “It’s just, I overslept this morning, and that sort of threw everything else off, but . . . You don't have to worry about me."
E.L. didn’t look convinced. “Well, you know, if you ever want to talk about it . . . about what happened, or whatever, I’m here.”
He nodded, uncomfortable. “Oh, there’s Chick Hearn. The game must be starting.”
“So what does your fortune say?” E.L. asked, not falling for the attempted diversion.
Lionel pulled the slip of paper out of the cookie and read it out loud. “‘Stop procrastinating—starting tomorrow.’”
E.L. laughed so hard, he almost choked on a mouthful of rice.
“You didn’t sneak this one in, did you?” Lionel accused him.
“I swear, it wasn’t me.” He pointed to the table. “Looks like they gave you an extra one, though. Want to try again?”
Lionel wasn’t so sure, but he opened it anyway. “‘Pleasures await you by the sea.’”
“Three for three. Amazing,” E.L. said, impressed. “We could definitely use a trip to the beach.”
****
Lionel made it to the halftime show before he finally passed out on the couch. Sober.
E.L. thought about waking him, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. It was obvious that he needed more sleep, no matter how hard he tried to pretend he was fine.
When the game was over and the table had been cleared, though, he had no choice. He shook Lionel’s shoulder.
“Hey, buddy,” he said.
Lionel’s eyes opened. He looked at the TV, surprised. “What happened?”
“The Lakers won,” E.L. explained, “so I’m going to call it a night.”
“Oh, no.” Lionel got up. “I’m sorry. How much did I miss?”
“Just the second half. But don’t worry about it. It was a good game, and the food was great. I left the rest of the cookies in the kitchen for you, okay?”
“Okay, thanks.” Lionel followed him to the door.
“Thanks for inviting me, man.” E.L. put on his jacket. “So, like your fortune said, no more procrastinating tomorrow, right?”
That made Lionel smile, at least. “Right. See you tomorrow.”
****
“How much you want to bet he’ll be a no-show again?” E.L. asked Mike as they waited in the office the next morning.
“Betting on your partner now?” the officer teased him, polishing off a doughnut from the box he’d brought. “I think you’ve got a problem, E.L.”
“Okay, wise guy, not a literal bet.” He’d already told Mike all about yesterday. “But he’s not here, is he?”
“He will be,” Mike insisted. “He’s not that late yet.”
“You know, I really wish we could bottle that optimism and sell it,” E.L. told him. He glanced out the window. “Why should today be any different than yesterday?”
“Well, for one thing, I’m here,” Mike joked. “And for another, so is he.”
E.L. turned around, surprised, as Lionel walked into the office.
“Welcome back, pal!” Mike said, going over to shake his hand.
“Thank you.” Lionel took in the welcoming banner, the box of doughnuts, and E.L. standing by the window. "Sorry I'm late. I've been having some, uh, insomnia since I got out of the hospital."
“No problem.” E.L. came over and patted him on the back. “Just glad you’re here, big guy. The place hasn’t been the same without you.”
“E.L.’s not used to being the responsible one,” Mike kidded him.
“Yeah, it was rough,” E.L. admitted. “You make it look easy, man.”
“Well, I really appreciate your holding down the fort,” Lionel said. He looked at a framed picture on his desk. “What’s this?”
Mike smiled. “One of the pictures I took of you with Steve Cannell. Thought you might like to hang it up, for inspiration.”
E.L. couldn’t get over their good luck, having a friend like Mike. A nice, helpful cop who didn’t think detectives were a nuisance? Very rare. At least it’d been E.L.’s idea to ask the author of Lionel’s beloved Mark Savage series if he could visit him at the hospital. Cannell was in town for a bookstore appearance, and Lionel had been disappointed about not being able to go.
“I love it. Thank you,” Lionel said, smiling. “I still can’t believe I got to meet him. You know, he answered every one of my questions.”
“I’ll never forget the look on your face when he walked in,” Mike told him. He checked his watch. “Now, why don’t you go get a doughnut before I hit the road?”
“And coffee?” Lionel asked, heading for the coffeepot. “I can use some caffeine, too.”
“Just brewed some.” E.L had thought of that, at least. “I know you’ll want to be awake later, when our potential client gets here."
Lionel looked at him. “We have a potential client?”
“Yep. He called yesterday and made an appointment for two o’clock.”
“Why didn’t you tell me last night?” The way Lionel devoured his doughnut, E.L. figured he must’ve skipped breakfast.
“I didn’t want you to feel pressured,” he admitted. “About coming in.”
“Oh. Well, did he say what kind of case it is?”
“Missing person,” E.L. said. “Sounds like it shouldn’t be too stressful. I hope, anyway.”
“Yeah,” Mike agreed, “could be a good way to ease yourself back in.” He got up. “Well, I have to take off. Have a great day, guys.”
“You too, man,” E.L. told him, shaking his hand. “Thanks for helping us celebrate.”
“Yes, thank you,” Lionel said. “Be careful out there.”
“I will. See you later.”
There was an almost palpable drop in energy as Mike left the room. E.L. wondered how he always knew the right thing to say to Lionel. Maybe because he’d seen other cops go through similar situations.
“So,” he began, “how does it feel to be back in the saddle?”
Lionel was looking through his desk drawers, one by one, as if getting reacquainted with their contents. “Pretty good. I’m just hoping I won’t get bucked off again.”
E.L. laughed. “Ah, there’s that sense of humor. I missed that. Along with your first-rate organizational skills.” He picked up a cardboard box near his desk and brought it over to him. “My filing system’s a little . . . looser.”
“I see that.” Lionel started sifting through the papers, mostly mail.
“Yeah, I thought it’d be better to let you handle it,” E.L. explained. “Give you something to do on your first day back."
“That was very thoughtful of you,” Lionel said.
Was he being sarcastic? E.L. couldn’t tell. “Hey, if you don’t want to do it, that’s fine. I can—”
“No, you’re right. I need something to do.”
Before E.L. could say anything else, Lionel’s phone rang. He took a deep breath, then answered it.
“Mom, why are you calling me here?” he demanded a moment later.
E.L. smiled sympathetically, then took some papers over to the file cabinet, trying not to eavesdrop. He couldn’t help overhearing, though, in the small office.
“Yes, that’s why I didn’t answer the phone at home. I told you I was going back to work this week.” He was quiet for a minute, listening. “Well, I’m sorry you feel that way, but I haven’t changed my mind. I’m still a private detective.” Silence. “No, I haven’t called him . . . Because I don’t want to talk about it . . . No, no, I don’t need medication. I’m fine. Look, I’m sorry, Mom, but I have to go now. I have a lot of work to do.”
E.L. wasn’t sure if he was happy or sad that Lionel was turning into such a good liar.
****
Lionel stared at the cardboard box on his desk. It was a box like this that had gotten him into this mess in the first place. Well, not the box itself, but what was inside it.
He'd been sitting at his desk that morning, too, when someone knocked at the door. The gruff voice of Byron Simms—now dead—told him they had a delivery for E.L. His partner wasn't there, Lionel had started to explain, not knowing the two ex-cons had timed their visit carefully. Waiting until he was alone.
The other man had pulled a gun out of a box. And before Lionel could react, he'd shot him, point-blank.
“Lionel?” E.L.’s voice sounded far away. “You okay?”
Oh, no. What had he done? He was slumped over his desk, sweating and out of breath. “Yeah, I . . .”
“Something scared you, right?” E.L. looked worried. “Oh . . . I slammed the drawer too hard, didn’t I?”
“What?” Lionel had no idea what he was talking about.
“The file cabinet. It made a banging sound. You know, like a . . .”
Lionel shook his head, trying to erase the image from his mind. “The gun had a silencer on it.”
“It did?” E.L. sounded surprised.
Great. He’d just said too much. “I thought you knew.”
“No. I’m sorry, man.”
“You don’t have to be sorry.” All of a sudden, the office felt too small. Stifling. Lionel tugged at his tie. “I just, I had a flashback. You’ve heard of those, right?”
“Yeah,” E.L. said. “This guy I know was in Vietnam; he has them sometimes. That’s what happened to you just now?”
Lionel nodded. “The box, it started it. Then I looked at the door, and . . . my mind started replaying the whole scene."
“I didn’t even think about that—the box. I’m sorry.”
“Would you stop apologizing?” Lionel’s tone was sharper than he’d intended. He got up. “It’s not your fault.”
“You know,” E.L. began cautiously, “I couldn’t help overhearing you and your mom. And I never thought I’d be agreeing with her, but . . . maybe it would be a good idea to talk to that psychiatrist.”
Lionel couldn’t believe it. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”
“What? No!” E.L. exclaimed. “That’s not what I meant. I’m just saying—”
Lionel brushed past him. “I need some air.”
“C’mon, man,” E.L. called after him, “where are you going?”
“Outside.”
****
E.L. dumped the contents of the box onto Lionel’s desk, then stuffed the cardboard into the trash can. Usually, when Lionel got mad at him, there was a good reason for it. But he wasn’t even sure what he’d done wrong this time. If it wasn’t his fault, like Lionel said, then why did it feel like it was?
He sighed. Maybe a little fresh air would do him some good, too. And something to eat—anything except another doughnut.
Out in the courtyard, Lionel was pacing. He saw E.L. and walked over.
“I’m going to lunch now, before Mr. Nolan gets here,” E.L. told him. He hesitated. “You want to go with me?”
Lionel looked relieved. “Yes, I do. But first, I need to apologize. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that."
"It's okay, buddy. We knew your first day back might be tough."
“And you’ve been nothing but patient with me since the beginning,” Lionel said. “I’m sorry I took my anxiety out on you."
Glancing across the parking lot, E.L. had a brief flashback of his own. An ambulance idling, lights flashing, its back doors open. Lionel lying on a gurney inside, seriously wounded. About to be rushed to the hospital after taking a bullet that could’ve—no, should’ve—been meant for him.
“Well,” he said, turning back to him, “like you just told me, it’s not your fault. So let’s go eat, okay?”
Lionel smiled. “Thanks, E.L.”
****
Gary Nolan, their prospective client, seemed like a decent guy. A building contractor with the look of an ex-high school jock; someone who liked to spend time outdoors. And he was concerned about his friend, Steve Preston, whom he hadn’t seen or spoken to in three months.
“We’ve been friends since high school,” Mr. Nolan said. “He worked for me the past two years, and we got along fine. But then, about three months ago, he quit. Said he needed a change. And I haven’t heard from him since.”
“Did you two have an argument?” E.L. asked.
“Nothing major. I mean, sure, we disagreed on things sometimes, but just little stuff. Nothing to make him shut me out completely."
“And you’ve tried contacting him, I presume?” Lionel was pacing again; he couldn’t seem to sit still for long.
“Yes,” Mr. Nolan said, “but he changed his phone number. The thing is, I’m a little worried that he might be in trouble, you know?"
“What kind of trouble?” E.L. asked.
“Well, another friend of mine heard he might’ve had some financial problems,” Mr. Nolan explained. “We did find out he moved to Riverside County somewhere, probably because housing’s cheaper there.”
“Is he married?” Lionel asked.
“Divorced. His ex remarried a few years ago, so he doesn’t have to pay alimony. And they didn’t have any kids.”
E.L. nodded. “Did he ever ask you for money?”
“No, he never said anything to me about it. Too much pride, I guess.”
“But your other friend knew about it?” Lionel asked, sitting on his desk.
“No, that was just a rumor,” the man admitted. “Nobody’s been able to tell me anything definite. That’s why I’m hoping you guys can find out what’s going on.”
“Well, we’ll do our best,” E.L. assured him.
Lionel half-listened as they continued to talk, trying to make sense of the story. If Mr. Preston needed money, why did he quit his job? Why wouldn’t he have confided in his old friend? Something serious must’ve happened between them to drive him away.
But E.L. was shaking Mr. Nolan’s hand, apparently finished with the interview. He waited until the man shook hands with Lionel, then walked him to the door.
“How ’bout that?” E.L. said after he’d left.
“What?” Lionel asked.
“Weren’t you listening?”
“I thought I was.” Obviously, he’d tuned out at the end. “What’d I miss?”
“Road trip!” E.L. smiled. “Our client just offered to put us up at a motel for at least three days.”
“He did?” Lionel was still confused. “Why?”
“So we can start our search. He knows a guy who owns a motel in Corona.”
Lionel had never heard of it. “Where’s that?”
“It’s a little town about an hour east of here,” E.L. explained. “He said we might see him while we’re out there, too, because he’s got a construction project going on in the area. I told him we’d head out there tomorrow.” He glanced at Lionel. “Any more questions?”
He had quite a few, actually, but he chose the first one that came to mind. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”
E.L. looked surprised. “Of course I’m sure. Haven’t I been saying we need to get away from here for a while?”
“To some little town we’ve never even heard of?”
“Remember what that fortune cookie said? ‘It’s not the destination, it’s the journey,’” E.L. pointed out. “So, yes, three days in a town we’ve never heard of. Then, if we wrap this thing up quick, maybe we can spend the weekend at the beach before we head back home.”
Lionel shook his head, overwhelmed. “I don’t know, E.L. Maybe I should stay here and . . . "
“And what?” E.L. sounded annoyed. “Have some more flashbacks? You can’t keep hiding forever, you know.” He collapsed into his chair with a sigh. “Okay, what’s really bothering you? It’s not about the trip, is it?”
“It’s just . . . something about Nolan’s story seemed a little off to me.”
“Off how?” E.L. wanted to know.
“Like there’s something he’s not telling us,” Lionel said. “There must be more to the story than that.”
“Well, maybe there is. But that’s part of the job, right? Finding clues, looking for more information.”
“I’m not sure we can trust him.”
“He seemed okay to me.” E.L. shook his head. “You know, you’re the one who usually trusts everybody, and now you’re—”
“Paranoid?” Lionel couldn’t resist asking.
“No, not paranoid. Just . . . suspicious.”
Lionel started pacing again. “Well, look where being trusting got me. Almost killed—twice.”
“C’mon, man,” E.L. protested, but Lionel wasn’t finished yet.
“I mean, I trusted those guys who knocked at the door that morning. And then I trusted that security guard to keep them out of my hospital room.” He sighed. “Sometimes being trusting just makes you look like an idiot.”
E.L. went over and stood in front of him. “Lionel, you’re not an idiot. Yeah, you got burned a couple of times, and that's too bad. But don't let it get you down on everybody, okay?"
Lionel looked at him. “You really think we can trust Nolan?”
“Yes, I do. I didn’t get any bad vibes from him or anything. But we should probably call Mike and ask him to have somebody run a check on our client. And Preston, too. That's the professional thing to do, right?"
“Right,” Lionel said.
“Okay, then. I’ll do it now.” E.L went back to his desk and grabbed his phone.
****
Things continued to move faster than Lionel would’ve liked. As soon as E.L. got the news he was hoping for about their client and his missing friend—no prior convictions or even a hint of public scandal—he was ready to call the motel.
“I think you’d better get two rooms,” Lionel told him before he started dialing.
“Afraid I might snore?” E.L. joked.
“No, I’m afraid I might wake you up. You know, nightmares.”
“Oh, yeah. And there’s that insomnia thing, too. Okay, adjoining rooms.” After he’d made their reservations, E.L. tapped his pen on his desk. “I’d better call my parole officer and let him know where I’ll be.”
Lionel felt a faint stirring of hope. The man was not kind-hearted. “What if he doesn’t want you to leave town?”
“I’ll make it sound like I don’t want to go, but I have to do it for my job,” E.L. said, undeterred. “You’ll back me up, right? Play the mean boss?”
“If I have to.”
He didn’t, of course. E.L.’s acting skills were sufficient.
“I guess I’d better go to the post office and have them hold my mail,” Lionel said, making a list. “And stop the newspaper delivery. And have someone contact us if we get any important messages."
“Don’t get too excited, now,” E.L. said dryly. “I’ll pick up a rental car in the morning, and then we can leave sometime in the afternoon.”
“Rental car?” Lionel asked, surprised.
“If we have to make a long drive, we might as well enjoy it, right?” E.L. sat back with a smile. “I’m telling you, Lionel, this is just what you need right now—a new case to dive into.” He picked up his pen. “Speaking of diving, I’d better pack my swim trunks. I’m sure that motel must have a pool.”
Lionel wasn’t interested in swimming, but he had to admit his partner was right about getting away. He needed to snap out of this funk and get back to business. Maybe a change of scenery would help. Maybe he’d sleep better somewhere else.
And maybe, somewhere along the way, he would finally talk to E.L. about what happened in this office on that ill-fated morning.
****