James Conway - In Cold Blonde

“Orange County,” Syd said, jumping on the connection. “Was your husband raised in Orange County?”

“Yes.” Emily saw the excited reaction from Ryan and Syd. “Why, is that important?”

“How about Colin Wood?” asked Syd. “Did your husband know Colin Wood.”

“Colin Wood, wasn’t he the actor that was killed yesterday?”

“Yes,” Ryan said. “Did your husband know him?”

Emily considered. “You know, I actually think I remember Adam mentioning Colin Wood a few months ago. He was in a movie we saw; Adam said he knew him.”

“How old was your husband?” Syd asked.

The rapid-fire questions were unsettling Emily. “Twenty-nine.”

Syd looked at Ryan. “Same age as Colin. And Kathy Tuttle’s lawyer said he heard rumors about trouble when Colin was in high school.”

Ryan looked at Emily. “Did your husband go to school with Colin Wood?”

“I don’t know.”

Then Ryan had a brainstorm. “I don’t suppose Adam kept any of his high school yearbooks?”

Adam Devlin’s office was a mahogany and leather delight. The room smelled of cigar smoke and floor-to-ceiling bookcases encircled a custom made Parnian desk.

It took a while to find the yearbooks. Ryan enjoyed the search because many of Adam Devlin’s books were first editions. There was a shelf of American classics by F. Scott Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Faulkner; Adam Devlin even had a signed first edition of Moby Dick by Melville.

Then there was a shelf of classic detective novels: The Big Sleep , by Raymond Chandler, The Thin Man by Dashiell Hammett, The Postman Always Rings Twice , by James M. Cain. Devlin owned scores of books from the world’s most renowned detective writers: Agatha Christie, John D. MacDonald, Rex Stout, Erle Stanley Gardner, Graham Greene, Cornell Woolrich, Ross Thomas, Ruth Rendell; even signed first editions from contemporary masters like Elmore Leonard, John Grisham, John Sanford, James Lee Burke and Michael Connelly.

Ryan loved books and always dreamed of collecting first editions. Of course, he never had the money to buy them or the library necessary to house them.

Until now.

As Ryan scoured through the books, a strange feeling took hold. Now he could buy any book he wanted. He could even buy Devlin’s entire library and it wouldn’t make a dent in his money.

For the first time Ryan really understood the magnitude of his Lotto winnings.

He could have a room like this.

He could have a house like this.

He could have all the toys.

He could have anything he wanted.

He had originally planned to give away all the money, but for the first time he reconsidered. Why did he have to give it all away? If he kept just ten percent, or twenty percent, even thirty percent would still leave tens of millions for the foundation.

“Got it,” Syd said, excited. “I found the yearbooks.”

Ryan and Emily joined Syd. She knelt in a far corner of the library, pulled out a yearbook from the bottom shelf. “Here’s the last one, his senior year.” She handed it to Ryan. He flipped through the senior pictures, found the one for Adam Devlin. He wore a yellow sweater and a warm, open smile.

“Hasn’t changed much,” Syd said.

Emily touched the picture with her finger. “He was wearing that sweater when I met him freshman year at USC,” Emily said, tearing up, suddenly nostalgic.

She’s going to go through a lot of emotions for the next few weeks, Ryan knew. Losing someone to murder, no matter how ambivalent you might feel toward them, was always a jolting experience.

He flipped through the alphabetical pages of photos until he got to the W’s. “Bingo,” Ryan said. Colin Wood’s picture was in the middle of the page. “Mrs. Devlin,” Ryan said. “Did Adam ever mention any trouble he might have had in high school?”

She thought about it. “No, not really. He told me his dad caught him with dope one time, and his mom walked in on him masturbating. I have too, by the way, but that’s another story.”

“I’ll bet the next victim’s in that book. Hell,” Syd said. “I’ll bet the Lady in Red’s in that book.”

“Can we borrow this,” Ryan asked Emily

“Of course.”

“We’ll also need access to your husband’s address book and computer.”

“They’re both there on his desk,” Emily said, looking at Ryan as if she was seeing him for the first time. “Detective, have we met before?”

Oh, shit, Ryan thought. Here it comes. “I don’t think so.”

“Are you an actor on the side or something?”

Syd knew where she was going, too. “No,” she said. “But you may have seen him on TV recently.”

Then it hit her. “You’re the Lotto winner, right. The cop who struck it rich.”

“That’s right,” Ryan said.

“How much did you win?”

“Thirty-four million.”

Emily’s eye’s dropped to Ryan’s ring finger. “I don’t see a wedding ring.”

“Oh, he’s single,” Syd said, enjoying Ryan’s discomfort.

“Well,” Emily said, a little of her old perkiness reemerging. “I’d be foolish not to mention I’m suddenly single.”

“This guy knows everybody in sports,” Syd said, thumbing through Adam Devlin’s address book. They were driving east on Olympic from Brentwood to Hollywood, suffering the fits and starts of rush hours. “Tiger Woods, Maria Sharapova, Tony Romo, Michael Phelps. And even most A list actors: George Clooney, Tom Cruise, Will Smith and, saving the best for last… Colin Wood.”

“He may not have been on Hollywood’s A-list, but he’s certainly on mine.”

“So, how’s this for a plan?” Syd asked. “I’ll check Colin Wood’s cell phone and phone book for Adam Devlin’s number; if it’s there, then I’ll cross reference all the names in both men’s phone books looking for matching names. Then I’ll cross reference any matches to the names in Adam Devlin’s high school yearbook. And if we get lucky, maybe, just maybe, we can get the names of a few more potential victims.”

Ryan looked at Syd, impressed. “Brilliant.”

“Look, I know you need to meet Anne to go over stuff for the Lotto tomorrow, so drop me at the station and I’ll call you if I find a match.”

“No,” Ryan said, instinctively. “Fuck the Lotto. This is too important. I’ll help.”

“Don’t be silly, Ryan, I can do this alone. And you don’t really mean that, do you? Fuck the Lotto?” Please say yes, Syd thought.

Ryan did feel guilty leaving Syd alone to work. All his adult life, work was priority one. But, at the same time, he was only a few hours from getting the Lotto money and surprisingly found himself focused on all the things that could go wrong. What if he loses the ticket? What if the tow truck driver shows up at the presentation? What if the 7-Eleven clerk is there and says Ryan didn’t buy the ticket? What if they find the video of the tow truck driver buying the ticket? What if he oversleeps? What if he has a car accident in the morning and misses the presentation? What if Anne steals the money from him?

What if? What if? What if?

The growing obsession should have been enough warning to Ryan that his life would probably be much better off if he didn’t take the money. If he never took the money.

But he was far too gone for that.

In spite of himself, Ryan was dreaming about first edition books and hand crafted desks. He’d noticed all the things in the Devlin house: the plush carpets, state of the art appliances, beautiful furniture. And the familiar smells of freshly polished furniture and fresh flowers. Sights, sounds and smells that all reminded Ryan of his father’s house.

Ryan may not have cared much about money growing up, but living in luxury sure leaves a mark. His childhood memories of that house were like comfort food for the brain. His bedroom was filled with toys as a boy, gadgets and the latest computers as a teenager. His meals were prepared by Vivian, their black housekeeper. And with the musical chair nature of his father’s wives, Vivian was the only constant female influence on young Ryan’s life. The house was always clean, the bathrooms spotless, windows and mirrors sparkled, and furniture glistened. Each new wife would want to redecorate, so the carpets, drapes, pictures and furniture changed as fast as his father’s wedding rings. But it was always home.