Secrets of Paternity (3 page)

I
n a family-friendly neighborhood like his, James expected a lot of trick-or-treaters, but the sheer numbers amazed him. Time after time he answered the door, dropped candy into a paper bag or plastic pumpkin or pillowcase, shut the door and started to walk away, only to hear the bell ring again.

He gave up trying to do anything but give out candy, deciding to sit on his front steps, about four up from the bottom. It was already dark but still early in the evening, a magical time when the littlest kids were brought around by parents who either coaxed them to approach or dragged them away because they were too talkative and curious.

James enjoyed them all. It was his first Halloween in his home, in a real neighborhood, for more years than he could remember. The costumes ranged from store-bought to homemade to thrown together. Pirates swaggered, princesses pirouetted. Some things never changed.

The trick-or-treaters got older as the hour grew later, kids traveling in groups but without adult supervision. They more or less grunted, shoved their bags into range, grunted again then kept going. When the crowds thinned to one or two kids every five minutes or so, he decided to go inside. He stood just as a young man approached and stopped at the bottom of the stairs.

“No costume, no candy,” James said lightly. The kid hadn't bothered to don a hat or even carry a prop, unless he considered his black leather jacket and sunglasses, two hours after sunset, a costume.

“I'm Kevin,” the boy said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Kevin Brenley. Are you James Paladin?”

It was a blow to the abdomen—pain and joy jumbled together, wreaking havoc. Kevin. He had a son. Kevin. How had he doubted for a second that he wanted to meet the boy?

He found his voice. “Yes, I'm James.” Their connection was purely biological, but he was there, looking scared and slightly hostile and handsome. James put out his hand. “Thank you for coming.”

The boy hesitated a few seconds, shook his hand, then jammed his own back in his pocket.

James tamped down his inner turbulence. “Would you like to come inside?” he asked. He'd faced an escaped murderer with less uncertainty about what to do next.

“Can we just sit here?”

“Sure.” James gestured to the spot beside him, resisted smiling when Kevin sat on the step above, as far away as he could get. Damn. What did you say to a boy you had fathered but never seen? How much inane chitchat had to be spoken before anything important could be said? Did
he even have the right to ask questions of this young man who had yet to remove his sunglasses?

James was surprised Kevin had come on his own, although grateful that he had. Having Paul there, too, might have been even more awkward. “How is Paul?”

“My father died a year ago.”

James looked away, sadness rushing in. He closed his eyes. His throat tightened. He hadn't seen Paul in almost nineteen years, but he could see his face, hear his voice. “I'm sorry. Very sorry.”

“Thanks.” Kevin shoved his sunglasses on top of his head. His jaw twitched. “I'm not here looking for a father to replace him.”

Kevin was angry. James understood that. His father was dead, and James lived. It wasn't fair. Life wasn't fair. “I wouldn't expect to take his place. He raised you.”

“I heard you're a P.I.”

Surprise zipped through him. “How'd you find that out?”

“From my mom. Last week she found the agreement between you and Dad. She checked you out.”

Smart woman, not to let her son go blindly into a situation. But James wondered what she would've done if he hadn't passed muster. “I hope to meet her sometime.”

One side of Kevin's mouth lifted. “My mom's kinda unpredictable.”

“Okay.” James didn't know what else to say. Did
unpredictable
mean crazy? Would she be a problem? “Does she know you're here?”

“No. And we're going to keep it that way.”

“Why?”

“Because she wouldn't approve.”

Which made no sense to James. “But you said she
checked me out, and obviously she gave you my name and address. That sounds like approval to me.”

“She was keeping Dad's promise, that's all.”

“I see. But you're here. Why?”

“Because there's something you can do for me.”

“What's that?”

“Help me find my father's killer.”

Stunned, James studied the boy, noting his fury and pain. “Killer?”

Kevin nodded once, sharply. “The cops say it was an accident. I know better.”

A group of trick-or-treaters approached. James divided the remainder of his candy among them, tossing a handful into each bag.

“Cool!” a couple of them said before running off. “Thanks!”

James stood. “Let's go inside,” he said to Kevin.

After a moment Kevin stood, too. James saw his own DNA in the boy, not like looking in a mirror, but as if Kevin had stepped out of James's high school yearbook. Did Kevin see it? Did it make him uncomfortable? James and Paul had shared some similarities, but not like this.

He turned off the porch light to discourage more trick-or-treaters, then watched Kevin look around his house, wondering what he thought of it. Sometimes the echoing quiet overwhelmed James.

“You live here alone?” Kevin asked, his hands shoved in his pockets again.

“Yes.” He gestured toward the living room.

“Got any kids?”

Just you.
“No.”

“How come?”

“Until last year I worked as a bounty hunter. I wasn't home much. Didn't seem fair to a family to be gone so much.”

He hesitated a few seconds. “My dad was gone a lot, too.”

“What did he do?”

“Stuntman.”

James sat in an overstuffed chair, deciding he would seem less intimidating sitting down. Kevin moved slowly around the room, stopping to look at an item, then moving on.

“Hollywood type?” James asked.

“Yeah.”

“Seems like his death would've made news.”

Kevin picked up a piece of yellow quartz that sat on the mantel and examined it. “It did.”

“Maybe I was out of the country. Where'd you live?”

“In Southern California, in the Valley. Near Sylmar. We had a small ranch.”

“With horses?”

“Yeah. Can't be an all-around stuntman if you can't ride.” His tone of voice implied that James was being stupid for asking.

“I suppose not. You ride?”

“Of course.”

Of course.
“Your mom, too?”

Kevin faced him squarely. “Will you help me?”

So, no more chitchat. Kevin didn't care about James beyond what he could do for him, but it was enough for now. “Tell me what you know.”

The boy drew himself up. Obviously, even a year later, he had trouble talking about the accident.

“Dad was riding his bike down the canyon road. It was raining. He and the bike went over the side.”

“Why do you think it was intentional?”

“My dad was careful. Supercareful. He checked every stunt ten times. And he knew every inch of that road. No way that could've happened. No way.”

“Even though it was raining?”

“He would've been supercautious.”

The determination in his voice was convincing. “Yet the police think otherwise.”

“The police didn't know my dad.” He planted his feet and crossed his arms. “Look, if you don't want to help me, just say so.”

“Had he been acting differently, Kevin? Do you have something concrete to go on?”

“Yes. Different. I don't know how to describe it. Just different.”

“In what way?”

He closed his eyes for a few seconds. “Not there. I know that doesn't make sense. He was there, around, but he wasn't
there.
Like he was distracted all the time.”

“Did you talk to him about it?”

“Sort of. I asked him if something was wrong, but he said no. He was just tired.”

“You didn't believe him?”

Kevin shook his head. “I let it go, because I thought I would just give him some time. He told me everything. I figured he'd tell me this, too.”

Not everything, apparently.
Layered over the boy's obvious grief was belligerence, probably to hide how much he hurt. James's decision was easy. He would help Kevin—because if he didn't, Kevin would probably disappear from his life as quickly as he'd come into it, but also because James needed to help Kevin end his pain, or find a way to live with it, if he could. If Kevin would let him.

James also understood Kevin's urgency for justice.

“I'll investigate it,” James told him.

“You don't sound like you believe me.”

“I believe you knew your dad better than anyone, except your mom, probably. I just don't want you to get your hopes up.”

“Are you good?”

“Yes.”

Kevin stared at him. Wariness dulled his eyes, and he looked ready to flee at any moment. Finally he moved his shoulders, more an involuntary gesture of relief than an adolescent I-don't-care shrug. James figured he cared a whole lot.

“I'll need a little more information,” James said, standing. “Let me get a pad of paper. Can I get you something to eat or drink while I'm up?”

“Not hungry.”

The doorbell rang. James ignored it, assuming it was trick-or-treaters. He grabbed a pad from his office, convinced Kevin to sit down, then James wrote down more details—exactly where and when the accident occurred. Which police agencies were involved. More exact descriptions of Paul's out-of-character behavior.

“I can start with this,” James said. “Give me a couple of days to do some preliminary digging. Do you want me to call you?”

Kevin swallowed hard then nodded.

James pretended not to see how much his help meant to Kevin. “What's your phone number and address?”

Kevin gave him a telephone number only. “It's my cell.”

It was twice in a week that someone was afraid to give James personal information. An image of the Harley
wrecker flashed in his mind. She'd had the same sort of wariness in her eyes as Kevin.

“I gotta go,” Kevin said, pushing himself up. He hadn't taken off his jacket, and now he dropped his sunglasses back into place—before he headed out into the night.

James didn't want him to go, but he understood that if he wanted a relationship with this young man, he'd better take it slowly. He'd been handed a golden opportunity to get to know Kevin. He wouldn't squander it because he rushed it.

James extended his hand. Kevin clasped it. “Thanks,” he mumbled, then he headed for the door, his strides long and quick. The door shut behind him with a rattle of glass. His footsteps down the stairs were heavy and fast, drifting out of earshot within seconds.

Silence crash landed louder than ever before in the big house James loved. He hadn't realized just how empty it was, not truly. It made him hunger to fill it up now. Right now.

He grabbed a beer and headed into his office. He would look up newspaper articles about Paul's death first. But when he pulled up a chair to the computer, he just sat there, thinking about Paul, about how they met, and what had happened between them to make James indebted to him.

He needed to tell someone. Not his mother, not yet. Not until the relationship settled. Quinn was in Los Angeles helping the other ARC owners on a big case. That left Cassie. He called her home number and got her answering machine. He hung up, debating whether to call her cell, which would be on, but he didn't want to interrupt her night with her fiancé. They weren't at home, so they must be out having fun somewhere.

The doorbell rang. As before, he ignored it. It rang again.
Fifteen seconds later, again. Irritated he headed to the front door. When he was a kid, an unlit porch light meant “do not disturb.” He didn't have candy left to give out.

He yanked open the door, intending to give an etiquette lesson to the trick-or-treater. No costumed kid stood there, however, but the Harley wrecker, not decked out in a costume but in blue jeans and a red sweater.

“Am I interrupting something?” she asked, looking ready to flee, probably because he was scowling.

“No.” He was surprised by the jolt of reaction that whipped through him. “No, please. Come in.”

“Um. No, thank you. I'm sorry for dropping by so late, but I saw your light on. I just wanted to know about the estimate on the repairs. If I owe you more money.”

Maybe it was because he was already high on adrenaline from meeting Kevin that his heart started beating louder. That was part of it, he supposed, but more likely it was because he found her appealing. He liked that she was a woman of her word, that she'd shown up when she said she would, proving that such people did exist. He also liked the wary look in her eyes, similar, in fact, to Kevin's expression, even the same shade of blue—

“Mr. Paladin?” she said, taking a step back, her expression even warier.

“Would you like to have dinner?” he asked. He needed to talk to someone about what had just happened. He had a feeling she would sympathize or cheer or give him good advice on how to handle the situation. Maybe she even had teenagers herself.

“With you?” she asked.

He smiled at the shock in her voice. “I can't really invite you to go out with anyone else, can I?”

“No, thank you,” she said firmly. “Do I owe you more money?”

He was disappointed but not surprised at her turndown. “My mechanic hasn't given me an answer. If you'll leave your name and number this time, I'll give you a call when I know.”

“I'll come back.” She went down the stairs.

James watched her until she was out of sight, admiring the sway of her rear in her formfitting jeans. Although slender, she wasn't lacking curves in all the right places.