Back in Black (McGinnis Investigations #1) - Rhys Ford Page 0,35

diamonds, and an assistant district attorney who probably has political connections that are going to be chewing on my neck in a couple of days,” O’Byrne said with a sigh, pushing off of her chair to stand up. “Consider yourself assigned to the case, McGinnis. Dig in as deep as you can, but try not to get yourself killed. At least I know you’re not going to be talking to the lawyer. I’m going to have to see if I can find out who’s leaking information, but at least Ms. Brinkerhoff gave us permission to go through the house. I figured I would have to come at her with a warrant or call the whole thing off.”

“That tells me there’s nothing here,” I said, taking in the mess. “I mean, let’s think about it. Marlena Brinkerhoff knew her grandparents were criminals. She says they stopped when they took her in, but we only have her word on it.”

“So what? Marlena sat at home doing her schoolwork at the kitchen table while Grandma was out knocking over banks?” Bobby snorted. “You think she’s covering for them?”

“The Brinkerhoffs were never on the LAPD’s radar. Not like Rook Stevens,” O’Byrne said, pacing off the floor in long strides, avoiding the piles of debris. “But Stevens hit big and usually worked with a team. Or at least that’s what they think. They never caught him, and most of what they suspect he did came from other thieves looking to cut deals. If Adele Brinkerhoff did smaller jobs by herself, no one would know what she pulled.”

“She could have had a team, or at least someone small and wiry to help her,” Bobby threw out, stacking the last of the papers next to him. “That’s what they did in Victorian London, right? They had little kids shimmy down the chimney because they’d fit? Maybe before Marlena got her sheepskin, she was out fleecing the sheep with dear old Grandma.”

“That’s all conjecture,” O’Byrne replied. “We don’t have any evidence the Brinkerhoffs were anything but upright, law-abiding citizens.”

“I don’t know about that,” I said, leaning back in the wing chair.

The house wasn’t huge, maybe eighteen hundred square feet. It looked like it had three bedrooms and two bathrooms neatly packed into its early 1900s bones. While not as luxurious as the mansions in Brentwood or Beverly Hills, its prime location and vintage classic lines more than made up for its lack of space. Technically the home was considered a Craftsman bungalow, rich with polished wood and pocket doors, lovingly tended by its older European owners. It was a gorgeous house, perfect to raise a child in, with good schools nearby and close proximity to everything Los Angeles had to offer.

Considering I’d purchased a larger, much more run-down version of the house in Brentwood, I had a pretty good idea of its market value.

“This place right now could probably go for a million and a half. Property taxes are steep here. Even if they bought it years ago, it was still a pricey neighborhood. Always has been, this close to the studio,” I said, taking a good hard look at the living room. “Marlena said they gave up their old lifestyle, but how did they pay for all of this? Did either one of them have jobs? Costs a lot to raise a kid, right?”

“And put it through college,” Bobby chimed in gruffly. “Especially when they take six years trying to figure out what they’re going to do for the rest of their lives and then when they graduate, do something totally fucking different.”

“He’s bitter his son opened up a coffee shop,” I said, making O’Byrne laugh. “But really, where did they get their money?”

“We just started digging into their finances, but I’ve got to step carefully,” she replied. “I might be investigating a murder, but there’s still a lot of politics I’ve got to wade through, especially with her job up in San Francisco. I sniff at the wrong pile of dog shit, and it’s going to end up in my face.”

“You worried more about your career or catching a murderer?” Bobby growled, lifting his eyebrows at her.

“I’m not only going to pretend I didn’t hear you say that,” O’Byrne replied with a snarl of her own, “I’m also going to not shoot you for saying it. You know how this kind of crap works, Dawson. You did a full ride with the LAPD during some of its shittiest times. Even as cleaned up as it is