Hi all!
As I've mentioned before, story-tier supporters have been getting a steady stream of chapters for my Los Angeles-based Good Intentions spinoff under the working title of Grand Theft Sorcery. Over the last couple days, I wrote up a scene that I felt needed to be in the story somewhere, but at the time didn't know where. Mainly, it's a question of timing: when does the story have space for the conversations and revelations of the scene?
I figured this would be the sort of thing Patreon readers would see only once the finished book is ready to go, but this morning I hunted around for the right placement, and I found the perfect spot: right at the end of the chapter I shared for this month!
So if you're following along, this scene hits right in continuity with where we are. I've added it into the manuscript, and I figured hey, why not share it now?
“I’m Special Agent Maddox, FBI. We need to speak with Aaron Murphy. It’s urgent. Is he in?”
“Hold up. Let me see that again?” The receptionist gestured to Amber’s identification, wanting a closer look. Her rising eyebrows were as perfect as the rest of her makeup and ensemble, but the young woman’s unfazed demeanor in the face of the badge made the real impression.
Music reverberated through the wall behind her, loud and frenetic along with the muffled shouts of a very live-and-in-person performer. Not every musician in the pictures and album covers on the lobby walls caught Amber’s memory, but some were recognizable enough. Gold and platinum albums in display cases spoke for themselves.
“You got a warrant?”
“It’s not like that,” said Amber. “This isn’t a search or an arrest. Mr. Murphy isn’t in any trouble. We only want to talk.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s about his son,” Amber elaborated.
The receptionist’s stone wall showed the slightest crack of surprise, but otherwise held. Frowning, she glanced at her desk. “Okay, hold up. I’ll call, but you need to give me some space. We get celebrities through here, and it’s my job to keep their privacy. You ain’t got a warrant. I’ll call as soon as I can breathe.”
“That works.” Amber backed away to join the other two agents looming nearby. True to her word, the receptionist tapped carefully at the buttons of her desk phone with her perfectly manicured inch-long fingernails. Her eyes stayed on the agents.
“God damn. Is anyone gonna give us the time of day today?” Marino muttered under his breath.
“They deal with celebrities here, not peasants,” Amber joked. “She’s only doing her job.”
“You could—” Sanderson cut off his reply as the receptionist spoke.
“Hey,” the receptionist said quietly into her headset, “I got the FBI here looking for Aaron. They said it’s about his son.” The reply on the other side sent her voice into a gossipy whisper: “I didn’t know, either. Anyway, they say he’s not in trouble, but… you know.”
She stared. The agents waited.
“Alright.” She tapped her desktop phone again. “He’ll be out in a minute.”
Finished eavesdropping, Sanderson pulled out his phone to check messages. “You could be more assertive,” he advised quietly.
Amber thought that might be coming. On their way in, Sanderson had unexpectedly told her to take the lead. Now she was sure this was an impromptu personnel evaluation. Plenty of agents saw her relative youth as a potential hindrance… and Sanderson already had questions about her judgment.
“She took the ID seriously, and me,” Amber explained. “A receptionist at a recording studio has to deal with artists and producers, and probably stalkers. Backbone must be the first requirement of the job. If I come in aggressively, I’ll have to back it up. We’re not here with a warrant, so what’s the point of being confrontational?”
“Mmhm,” Sanderson replied—without doubt, or approval, or anything to signal acceptance or rejection of her reasoning. His eyes stayed on his phone, looking through email.
“I’m sure they’re hiding all the hookers and blow in the back,” grumbled Marino. It didn’t sound like a joke.
This time, Amber didn’t hide her skeptical expression. It took all of her willpower to reply with the gentlest response that came to mind: “Please tell me you know more about music than stereotypes.”
Marino’s scowl deepened. Amber realized she did not, in fact, sound gentle.
“Damn,” grunted Sanderson.
Amber expected another reprimand, but his eyes were still on his phone. “Something up?”
A door opened beyond the reception desk, prompting Sanderson to put his phone away. Whatever his news, he still paid attention to his surroundings. “Tell you later.”
The new arrival looked about as happy as everyone else in the small lobby. He pushed back on middle age with a fashionable haircut, well-trimmed beard, and tan. His blue silk button-down shirt was open just low enough to make his gold chain visible. “What’s going on?”
“Are you Aaron Murphy? I’m Agent Maddox, FBI. Could we talk somewhere private?”
Murphy glanced to the other two agents, but otherwise accepted Amber as their speaker. He didn’t step beyond the reception desk. “Nah. I’m good here.”
Still at her seat, the receptionist’s brow rose, but she said nothing. Amber detected surprise rather than loyalty, as if bearing witness to interactions with the feds hadn’t been listed on her job duties until this very moment.
“Mr. Murphy, you’re not in any trouble. My concern is for your privacy,” said Amber.
“That’s fine. Look, we’ve got an act finally ready to record, and I’m the sound engineer. Everyone is on hold while I’m out here, so can we cut straight to it? What did Evan do?”
“We need to reach him. It’s urgent. He’s not answering his phone or his door, and doesn’t have much of an online presence. Do you have any way to contact him?”
“That’s all? You couldn’t leave a voicemail?”
“Mr. Murphy, this is serious. We have evidence of dangerous people searching for him. We need to find him before they do. That’s all I can say. Have you had any contact with him?”
“Not in ten years,” Murphy scoffed.
“Could you point us toward anyone who knows him?”
“No. I’ve got nothin’ for you. When I say I haven’t had contact, I mean I haven’t had contact. Whatever he’s involved with has nothing to do with me.”
“Your son is a young man. If you haven’t seen him in ten years—”
“My wife died in a car wreck when Evan was fourteen,” Murphy interrupted irritably. “He couldn’t handle it and ran away.”
“Couldn’t handle it?” Amber blinked. “You said he was fourteen.”
“Yeah, he was. We barely had a roof over our heads back then, and I couldn’t keep it by babysitting him day and night. What should I have done, chain him to the house? Cops brought him back twice, but it didn’t change anything. After the second time, I never saw him again. He’s an adult now. Not my problem anymore.”
“He’s your son,” said Amber.
“I remember. I was there. He doesn’t want anything to do with me. I’ve had no contact. What more do you want me to tell you?” Murphy shrugged. “I’ve come a long way since he left, and I need to get back to it. Are we done?”
“Please take our number,” Sanderson said, handing Murphy his business card. “If anyone else contacts you about Evan, call us immediately. It could be important to your own safety.”
“Sure,” Murphy grumbled. He disappeared through the staff door.
In Murphy’s wake, Sanderson set another business card on the desk for the receptionist. Then he nodded for the other agents to follow him out. None of them spoke until they were outside in the studio’s small parking lot, flanked by cars, thin trees, and concrete retaining walls.
“Christ, what an asshole,” said Marino.
“You’ve got that right.” Amber stayed at Sanderson’s side. “I had more to ask him, though. That chip on his shoulder provided some leverage.”
“Maybe, but you already got the bottom line out of him,” Sanderson said as they reached their car. “I don’t think he had much more to offer if it’s been ten years.”
“Eight years,” Amber corrected. “Evan is twenty-two now. He was fourteen when Mom died. Dad remembers that part, but he hasn’t been counting years.”
The detail paused Sanderson with his hand on the car door. Then he nodded to the others to get inside. “We’ve had a development.”
Marino drove, and seniority obviously gave Sanderson his choice of seats. That put Amber in the back. Sanderson held the phone between them all with the ringing tone of an outgoing call. “This is Nguyen,” answered the recipient.
“You’re on speakerphone,” said Sanderson. “I caught your text while we were with someone. What’s the situation?”
“Lanier caught some message traffic from LAPD with one of his search bots,” said Nguyen. “Some off-duty detective turned up dead in Hollywood earlier. Looks like he was shot in the head overnight. They’re keeping details out of the media, but all the internal stuff points to one Evan Murphy. The description matches our guy.”
“He killed a cop?” asked Marino.
“And stole a red Lamborghini in the process. The detective intervened in the theft and Murphy killed him. That’s all according to an anonymous tip, from what we’ve got.”
“Oh, come on.” Amber’s scowl matched the skepticism in Nguyen’s voice. Thankfully, even Marino showed some doubt.
“The original message said, ‘thief and murderer,’” noted Sanderson.
“Yeah, and that message went out to a list of monsters,” said Amber.
“LAPD’s gonna be out for blood,” said Marino. “All the neighboring departments, too. And a red Lamborghini is like a big flag marked, ‘Come Get Me.’ Murphy’s gotta know that.”
“He’s survived on his own since he was fourteen,” said Amber, “or he had support we haven’t found yet. Either way, I don’t think he got by this long out of dumb luck. He’s not stupid, and I doubt he’s suicidal.”
“No,” said Sanderson. “But an ordinary innocent civilian doesn’t draw this kind of attention.”