Disputed: Ryn Davis Mystery Series, #5

By AB Plum

Demons from the past chase Ryn Davis as she tries to unravel the lies and secrets in her life …

Ten days after shooting the psycho who planned to sell Ryn Davis to the highest bidder in a sex trafficking ring, she boards a private jet. The killing rips open thirty-year-old wounds from her former prostitute mother's committed relationship with the jet's billionaire owner. He's dying, and Ryn wants to know why he loved her mother and provided for Ryn—despite her adolescent contempt.

Former legendary rock star Bo "Peep" Scott insists on accompanying Ryn. With no living family, he understands her need to dig into her murky past. His teen-age abuse of drugs burned out much of his brains, but he intends to be there with love and support.

Halfway over the Rockies, Beau receives a certified letter forwarded to his email. The unknown sender claims he and Beau are twins separated at birth. Now, the surprise brother's teenage daughter needs protection. An international prostitution cartel intends to kill him and ruin her life.

Lies, secrets, deceit, and murder collide as this cat and mouse game morphs into a battle for truth that threatens Ryn's and Beau's survival.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AB Plum
• Release date: Oct 6, 2021
• ISBN: 9798215507124

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Click. Click. Click.

At 10:00, the legal beagles had all gone home. But the computer keys barely created a whisper in the dim office. Ambient light, reflected from Beverly Hills’ perpetual nightlife, spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows on the twenty-fifth floor.

The computer screen flickered blue in the dark office. Words filled the white background. The man broke his rhythm once. Stopped. Deleted a single letter.

Too many s’s in essence. He smiled. Even clichés merited precision. He reread the text, input the closing, and pressed the print icon.

He pulled on plastic gloves and removed the thick, high-quality sheet of letterhead paper, laying it to one side. He inserted a legal-sized envelope. Closed the printer. Again, tapped print. Scrawled his signature at the bottom of the letter. Folded the page in thirds before the envelope slid into the trough. He inserted the paper into the envelope. That went into the inside pocket of his suit coat.

He aimed a small bottle at a thin white cloth from his other pocket. Spritz. Spritz. Spritz. The keyboard and monitor. The desktop and arms on the chair. Every surface he’d touched received a squirt of disinfectant. Several swipes—possibly overkill—erased potential fingerprints.

Carpet muffled his footsteps as he jogged into the hallway. No hurry, really. Not with the security cameras hacked. The guard in the main lobby would never know what hit him.

The man smiled and stepped into the elevator.

What—

His spine cracked as the passenger slammed him against the elevator’s mirrored wall. Instinct propelled him a step toward the door slowly closing.

The letter. The passenger extended his free hand and pointed the gun in his other hand at the man’s chest.

The plan.

Changed. The passenger opened his hand wider.

Bastard. No honor among thieves. The man jammed his hand into his pocket, imagined throwing the envelope in the passenger’s face, and tossed it on the floor instead.

The single bullet tore into his chest and cut short his final act of defiance.

One Day Earlier, COVID-19 Lockdown in effect - Alta Vista, California

Rock icon Bo Peep Scott cleared in death of psychopath

Ryn Davis read the headline from the Silicon Valley Sentinel and swallowed the last of her breakfast coffee without choking. The icon, her live-in legal ward and best friend, had handed her the rag without comment. He tapped the purple cast on his right arm and wiggled his eyebrows. His attempt to cheer her up failed.

Her name, along with Elijah White’s, came up repeatedly in the front-page story. The investigative reporter reported most of the facts inaccurately—who killed whom, when, and why. He also threw in two speculative paragraphs about the justifiable homicide of the husband of Ryn’s cousin. Surprisingly, he omitted Molly’s name.

Go figure. Unlike the fickle celebrity of Ryn, Beau, and Elijah, Molly enjoyed no social media fame.

Which is about to change.

Ryn exhaled, finished the story, and tasted bile.

Two murders involving the same three people boggled the mind. Mix in that Ryn, Elijah, and Beau had a history of other violent deaths over the past two years. The stuff of soap operas.

Stone Wall, Ryn’s rock star lover, shot in their bed.

Marta Fuentes, one of the former prostitutes living at Esperanza House, the halfway house for former prostitutes that Ryn ran and supported financially.

Chad Gleeson, Molly’s psycho husband, Beau’s kidnapper, and Ryn’s wannabe sex master.

Ironically, no mention of Whit Duncan, major donor to Esperanza House, shot in Ryn’s guestroom by The Avenging Angel, later killed by Elijah—not by Beau or Ryn.

Forget this crap. Ryn pushed back from the kitchen table. No use whining about what she couldn’t undo. Wanna go up to Esperanza House? I’ll ask Angela and Bella Dog, too.

What about Elijah?

I’m thinking I’ll give Elijah a break.

I’m thinking I’ll hang with Elijah and Maj. She needs a little TLC with Bella Dog poaching on her territory.

Sounds like a plan. Left unsaid, Beau’s need to bond with his queen-of-the-universe feline. He still bore black and blue bruises on his face and a casted broken arm from his kidnapping. What color were the mental scars from the screwed-up turn their lives had taken after his torture?

Breakfast finished, Ryn checked with her Executive Housekeeper. Leti oversaw delivery of most necessities to the women’s community, but she often sent items from Ryn’s pantry as well. Did she want to send food, surgical masks, or anything else to the seven women and their kids at Esperanza House?

Leti declined, adding, I’ll make meatloaf to drop off tomorrow.

"Gracias, Wonder Woman." Ryn offered an elbow bump.

"De nada. Mi gusto. My pleasure." Leti’s upbeat tone stopped Ryn.

"Cómo estás? The Avenging Angel" had inadvertently implicated Leti in Whit Duncan’s murder, and it seemed a little presumptuous to assume she had bounced back so quickly.

"Fine. Estoy bien. Brown eyes steady, Leti placed her hand over her heart. I would tell you. Verdad. Truthfully."

Ryn gave the younger woman a quick hug, released her, but took her hand. Angela and Elijah plan to leave for Sacramento on Friday. After that, life should return to normal.

"Qué será, será."

They walked arm in arm to the back door.

Despite the brilliant morning sunshine, Leti turned down Ryn’s offer to go for a walk. No one at the house except Elijah, six-five with legs like stilts, liked walking with Ryn. Which suited her fine. She’d use the time to think. Or not.

Halfway to the koi pond, she stopped, turned, and retraced her steps. She should at least ask Molly, her newly found cousin, to accompany her. With a mother lying at death’s door, Molly must need a break.

Ryn’s smartphone vibrated, and she slowed her pace. Caller ID showed the last name she ever wanted to see. Dammit.

Tempted to let the call go to voice mail, she glanced toward the guesthouse. Check with Molly or talk with the caller?

Since she’d have to speak with Steven White sooner or later, she connected the call. Crisp—snarky, to be honest—she asked, Is William all right?

I’m worried about him. No greeting, but straight to the point—like all Secret Service jerks?

Her pulse kicked up a notch. When we hung up last night, he sounded fine.

Today, he sounds old. Tired. Down.

Down? Ryn frowned. Except for a short phone call following her mother’s death, Ryn had never heard William Ward White anything but exuberant. The man who lived with her mother for sixteen years. The man who treated Ryn like his own child during those years. The man who withstood her adolescent disrespect with good humor and always proclaimed he was the luckiest man alive.

Now, nearly thirty years after she struck out on her own, he ended their nightly phone calls, begun after the Avenging Angel’s self-defense killing, with the same phrase.

I’m the luckiest man alive.

Pacing in a tight circle, Ryn asked, Are my phone calls too much for him?

On the contrary. He lives for your calls.

Hyperbole. She bit her tongue. Steven White’s tendency toward exaggeration was only one of the reasons she distrusted him. After less than a week? We haven’t spoken to each other since I was twenty-five, and he lives for my phone calls?

Do you have any idea how much he loved your mother?

The ice in his tone caught her off guard. You think he’s transferred his affections for her to me?

"I didn’t know you studied with Freud."

Long enough to know you bared your teeth the first time you called me. How had so much happened in a month?

Or you overreacted—knowing my relationship to Uncle Bill.

That’s ridicu—

Can you come to Kansas City? I know his spirits would pick up if you came for a few days.

She grabbed the first excuse that floated through her brain. I can’t leave Beau—not after his torture session in the barn.

Bring him.

Her heart beat too fast. You do remember the pandemic? The governor advises Californians to avoid unnecessary travel.

I’ll send Uncle Bill’s jet. No one’s been on it since I flew back from SFO last month. Before she could protest, he added, Naturally, it’s been professionally cleaned. The crew has quarantined since getting home, and they’ll have masks onboard. You’ll make Uncle Bill a happy old man.

Below the belt. Ryn kicked a rock off the path. I’ll talk with Beau—

One thing. I hope this isn’t a deal breaker. Beau can’t bring Maj. Uncle Bill is allergic to the word cat.

Ryn hadn’t considered transporting Maj halfway across the country by plane, but she sniped, Now you tell me.

Smart man that he was, he said zip. She let him sweat for a few minutes and finally took mercy. I’ll call to work out the details after I get Beau’s buy-in.

Broken arm or not, ask him to bring his guitar. Uncle Bill’s a fan.

Another low blow. Beau loved to perform almost as much as he loved to eat. She deadpanned, What about his drums?

A blip of silence and then Steven laughed. Always the last word, Ryn.

CHAPTER 1

The Next Day—Thirty-thousand feet above the Rockies–10:00 AM

The private jet’s engine hummed, softened by the soulful guitar music floating through the cabin. The headache hammering Ryn’s skull faded. Eyes closed, arms and legs heavy as cement, she felt her whole body drift. She snuggled into the down-filled pillow and sighed. They’d arrived at Mineta Airport’s private jet area at 7:30 AM. So, even one hour of sleep now—

The phone on her waist vibrated. Her pulse raced.

Calm down. She exhaled. The music soothed her exhausted brain. Beau sat in the back of the plane strumming his guitar. Once a professional, always a professional. He’d never let the cast stop him from playing. All is well with the world.

Plus, she’d dotted her i’s and crossed her t’s before leaving California. She squeezed her eyes tighter. To hell with whoever was calling.

What about Will? She jerked upright, pulled the phone off her belt, and blinked to bring the led into focus.

Her heart kicked a rib. Leti, what’s wrong?

There’s a courier here. He says he has a special delivery letter for Beau requiring a signature. The guy won’t accept mine.

Bullshit. The hair on Ryn’s scalp tingled. Probably a sleazeratti. Wanting a private chat with Beau about what went down in the barn last week. An icy finger tripped down her spine. Godda—she bit her tongue. COVID or no COVID, she should’ve sent Leti to Jalisco after her executive housekeeper’s drop into hell last week. The woman hadn’t signed up for more drama.

Put him on the phone—

Dumb move, Ryn.

Leti! Wait. Don’t let him inside the house. Too late, she heard her housekeeper’s muffled voice. Dammit, was the guy wearing a uniform?

Within seconds a man came on and identified himself by name and badge number as well as employer. Blackstone, Lawson, and Guerin. Attorneys in Beverly Hills. Mr. Scott needs to sign for this letter ASAP.

ASAP won’t come today. Damned if she’d divulge how long they’d stay in Kansas City. Not with the likelihood of a scam. If you want a signature now, either accept Ms. Garcia’s or forget it.

His exaggerated sigh carried the impatience of an adolescent. I’ll have to call B, L, and G.

Do that. She disconnected before he could argue.

Why would Beau know attorneys in Beverly Hills?

Neck muscles jumping, she stretched, stood, and walked to the rear of the plane. Both cabin attendants sat across from Beau as if mesmerized. At her approach, they jumped to their feet. She smiled and motioned them to stay seated. How long would they require to return to consciousness in case of an emergency?

The drummer who’d played with iconic rock star, Stone Wall, lead for the Stoned Wall Gang and Ryn’s murdered lover, glanced up.

A full-wattage smile radiated from him as he continued making beautiful music despite the cast on his right arm. His sausage fingers plucked the strings as if the swelling in them had disappeared.

Ryn’s phone vibrated, and she stopped swaying. Leti’s text informed her the courier had accepted her signature. Ryn texted two thumbs up and asked Leti to open the letter and forward it in an email. Might as well see what was so damned important.

When the email notification pinged, she interrupted Beau. The couriered letter was addressed to him. He should read it first. They returned to the front of the plane. She kept her explanation simple and handed over her phone. His lips didn’t move as he read the letter, but she mashed her thumb against her bottom lip to keep from screaming. Sleep. She needed sleep. Scheduling this trip, she’d canceled the sleep study. Again.

Set it up now. She grimaced. Or not. Learning more about her mother from her long-time lover might resolve her insomnia.

Absolutely.

When Beau finished reading, he scratched his head. His yellow curls bounced. His baby fine, blond eyebrows rose to his hairline. Is this a joke?

Give me a second. She took in the contents in one glance, locked her jaw, and reread the piece of crap.

CHAPTER 2

Alta Vista, California – 10:00 AM

At six-five, with skin as black as coal, Elijah White didn’t fool himself that he blended in with the English walnut trees three miles from Ryn’s house. But he had a talent for standing as unmovable as a tree. And he carried at least forty pounds on the dude a few feet in front of him peering through binoculars as if frozen by the view.

What the hell does he see? Elijah stayed behind the tallest of the walnut trees and squinted against the sun’s early morning glare. Still blissed out after a long morning in bed with Angela, he’d swear the dude was packing.

Dumb. Dumb. Dumb-ass stupid. Elijah cursed under his breath. Dammit, he was getting careless. Fifteen days after he’d gotten up close and too personal with an alligator, he’d taken off on his morning jog without his Glock. Ryn’s little piece of utopia made it easy to forget the snake occupied paradise alongside Adam and Eve.

Dude dropped the glasses at his side, turned, and yelled, Hey, man! What the hell’re you doing?

My question, Elijah drawled, pinching Dude’s elbow and trying to control his breath after his panther-sprint.

Trying to figure out where I am. I’m lost. Dude’s reflective aviators hid his eyes, but his military posture and Marine-scraped scalp gave him away.

A Fed. Elijah tightened his grip, then released the guy’s elbow. Huh-uh. I’d say you were found. Like discovered. Like caught.

Inching his feet backward, Dude held up both hands. You’re wrong, man.

Stand still. If you go for your piece, you’ll be sorry.

P-piece? What’re you talkin’ about? The Fed was so slick, Elijah almost missed his right hand dropping to his waist.

Almost. Elijah threw a right jab at Dude’s chest, knocked him on his ass, and jerked the Glock out of the guy’s waistband. Stand still means don’t move.

The other man offered no resistance. Shit. I am so fucked.

Who are you?

Can I get up?

Don’t know. Can you get up? Depends on whether you want to play the super badass. Who are you?

If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you. Straight-face. No inflection in his voice.

Ha. Ha. You need a new scriptwri— Elijah fell face forward as pain sliced through his brain.

Repeated pings overrode a groan somewhere very close. Jesus, his head thumped as if every nerve had shattered.

Opening his eyes proved his brain had gone AWOL. Owww. Shit. Sonuva …

Shut. Up. Speaking ratcheted up the ice pick chipping away at his skull.

Unable to place his body in time and space, he closed his eyes. The impulse to touch the back of his head faded. The pings did not. Pressure against his right groin increased. His brain connected a couple of dots. He raised his hip …

And cursed his brain. Nausea crawled up his throat. He lay absolutely still. His brain churned. Spit out thought fragments.

Open his eyes, scream, head splitting in two.

Raise his hip, scream, balls …

The last thought flitted through his mind without firing the neurons required for thinking. But … the pinging … stopped. The sun’s warmth seeped into his back as he groaned.

Elijah? An angel’s soft whisper welcomed him to heaven.

Or maybe it was hell. His head still hurt like …

Babe? Can you open your eyes? The angel touched his wrist, but he mumbled something with his eyes closed.

Okay, I’m calling the EMTs. Her voice dropped. Let’s hope they still respond to non-COVID …

Her words faded to nothingness, but her fingers massaged his arm, easing the sharp edges of the pain.

Whether time expanded or contracted, he didn’t know or care. Low voices penetrated the fugue. He felt his body lifted. He groaned, and the angel cried out.

I’m sorry. She stroked his arm, murmuring his name over and over like a love song.

CHAPTER 3

Kansas City, Missouri – 1:00 PM CST

Steven White glanced at the smartphone in his hand and reported to his uncle for the third time in thirty minutes. The plane’s on time. They should be landing in an hour.

I intend to turn off the damned oxygen when she gets here, Uncle Bill said, his voice thin but still carrying the authority of a multibillionaire.

Whoa. Steve pulled his chair closer to the hospital bed and wished for the thousandth time the big bedroom felt less like a sauna. Let’s wait till Mark—

Mark’s my doctor—not my boss. He’s not the boss of me echoed in his uncle’s tone. The man who hadn’t played on a playground for over seventy years spoke with finality. Part of the reason I’m at home and not in a hospital is so I can make my own rules.

If you start coughing and die within five minutes of her arrival, I doubt she’ll have any more respect for you than if you use the oxygen. Steve faked a cooperative tone. Normally, William Ward White touted cooperation as the way he’d earned all his billions.

He chuckled and raised a hand purple with veins and age spots. Touché. Next time I start demanding my own way, give me a smart head slap.

Steve flinched. He laid his hand on his uncle’s thigh—all bones under the comforter. Sorry to lip off.

Absolutely no apologies. I’m … agitated. The phone calls this past week have helped but meeting Ryn after all these years—I’m more nervous than I want to admit.

Understand. She’s not exactly what you call warm and cuddly.

But you like her?

Hmmm. Steve pulled on his bottom lip. Admire, yes. Respect, yes. Like? Not so much. I figure in four days we’ll grow on each other.

Or not. Steve swallowed an acidic burn and kept the last thought to himself. No use upsetting Uncle Bill with his misgivings about a woman who had disrespected both her mother and his uncle as a stubborn, unforgiving teenager.

Isn’t that the nature of teenagers?

Believe me, I’ve been on the receiving end of Ryn Davis’s disdain. It was never what she said, but her way of slitting her eyes and flaring her nostrils— Uncle Bill stared into middle space. Something I never saw Marilyn do.

Marilyn Davis was a lady. Steve’s mother had made this pronouncement more than once, so he knew the truth was engraved on a stone tablet yet to be discovered.

And Ryn’s father was a prince—according to Marilyn. She swore his premature death explained everything about her daughter. Ryn adored him. Thought he hung the moon and stars.

That I get, Steve said. If Dad had died when I was seven …

I don’t think either you or I have a clue what it was like growing up knowing your mother had sex with men for money. Then, she lived with another man—an old rich guy—instead of marrying him.

You think marrying you would’ve made a difference?

Not really. Uncle Bill waved his fingers in the air. Marilyn thought Ryn idealized everything about her father—his looks, his protectiveness, his immortality. Most kids that age don’t grasp the death of such omnipotence as anything other than their fault.

From what I’ve seen, Ryn’s an equal-opportunity judge. She’s as hard on herself as she is on anyone else.

So, you know. Uncle Bill patted Steve’s hand. I’m not expecting Ryn to throw her arms around me and declare I’m her new knight-in-shining-armor. But she’s called me every night for a week, and she calls me by Marilyn’s pet name—that’s enough.

Despair crashed through Steve, but he nodded. His uncle was one of the good guys. He’d never lied to Steve. What he was willing to settle for in a relationship with Ryn Davis was his call.

But if she breaks his heart …. Steve clamped down on the thought and said what he was supposed to say. We’re on the same page, Uncle Bill.

CHAPTER 4

Do not overreact. Ryn clenched her jaw, and the tension rippled through her entire body. One more sign she needed sleep.

Her phone lay on the armrest between her and Beau. While she studied the letter, he tapped his foot. Lightly enough he managed not to put a hole in the jet’s floor. The low-key pat-pat-pat showed amazing restraint.

Under other circumstances, she’d’ve worried about his sudden maturity. It occurred to her to thank him for his patience. He’d said almost nothing after his read through of the letter, but surely, he grasped the contents—if true—would change their lives.

Her life as well as his since their lives were so intricately intertwined. Intertwined by mutual consent. As his legal guardian, she willingly accepted the complexity of their relationship. For her, he was the only man she fully trusted.

The engine’s drone quieted the anxiety dripping into her gut. She glanced up and smiled with what she hoped passed for unspoken reassurance. His musician’s ear picked up every nuance of speech. She exhaled and tried a more believable smile.

He returned the gesture, and the skin crinkled around his baby-blue eyes. They reflected his trust. For a heartbeat, she felt weighed down by the purity of his feelings. Ten years younger at thirty-five, he projected, even worried, a much more youthful image than many of his contemporaries.

Whatta ya think, Ryn? His thin white brows came together.

Her phone chimed, and thanks to the perks of a private jet, she grabbed it like the lifeline it was. I should take this. It’s Leti.

Put her on speaker.

Not an unreasonable request, but Ryn hesitated. He cut her a look that reminded her she was his guardian, but he was an adult. She punched speaker and mouthed, Sorry.

Hi, Leti, Beau said, following with Elijah’s favorite question, ’Sup?

Silence. Ryn’s breath hitched. She asked, Everything okay?

It’s Elijah. He’s in the hospital—

Why? Beau’s question took the word out of Ryn’s mouth.

"Angela’s not sure. He went out to jog. When he didn’t answer his phone, she went out looking for him. She found him semiconscious on the trail cerca de los arboles de nuces—near the walnut trees," Leti translated.

Her reversion to Spanish sent a shiver down Ryn’s spine. Stress. Her executive housekeeper spoke English like a native Californian.

He’s in the hospital. A statement versus a question from Ryn.

At Stanford. Waiting for an MRI. They found a bump on the back of his head.

On the back of his head? Did that mean he didn’t fall?

He’s still not fully conscious. Leti’s voice broke.

Ryn and I can call Angela. Beau’s baritone was velvet.

Text her. She can’t receive calls inside the ER.

That’s good to know. Does Molly know? Why don’t you go tell her? Left unsaid, so you don’t have to be alone.

I thought—with her mother so sick—it might be an imposition.

The nurse likes Molly to get away some every day.

Leti didn’t need much more to convince her to take Ryn’s advice. She said goodbye and disconnected.

She’s spooked, Beau said.

Too much going on. First, the courier … then Elijah attacked. A coincidence? Ryn accepted the reality of coincidence—as long as she had evidence. In this instance—

Ryn? Beau’s tap on her wrist brought her back to the cabin. Can I text Angela?

Ryn’s heart missed a beat, but she said immediately, Sure. I’ll call Molly before Leti shows up.

Molly answered on the first ring. As always, she listened without interruption. Kept in the Florida swamp for nearly a year as a virtual hostage by her psycho-husband, Molly had learned interrupting resulted in a whack upside the head. Or worse, rape if her husband wanted to remind her who was boss.

As Ryn spoke, her mind searched for memories of her and Molly as young girls—neighbors and BFFs—since both their mothers kept food on the table by sleeping with a regular clientele of upstanding citizens in Independence, Missouri. The past—vague, ephemeral—shimmered on the edge of memory, shattered by the present.

Ryn? Molly whistled into the phone. You there?

Ryn started, spoke on autopilot. Sorry. I spaced out. Did anything I said make sense?

It all made sense except for what you can’t know—who hurt Elijah?

I hope when he regains consciousness, he can answer that. In the meantime, I’m going to call a security service to send out several—

Are you sure that’s necessary? Molly’s interruption caught Ryn off guard long enough for Molly to rush on. Leti can stay here in the guesthouse with me and Mama until Angela returns.

That could be tonight or two weeks from tonight. Depends on Elijah’s condition. You’re out in the middle of nowhere. I’d feel better if you had someone in charge of protecting you. I’ll cancel my visit with William—

No! Molly shouted, then softened her voice. He’s an old man. He’s sick. He’s looking forward to your visit. Call the security agency.

Whit swore by them.

And look what happened there.

Shit. Ryn dug her fingernails into her thigh. Despite the top-drawer security firm CEO Whit Duncan had hired for his software company, half a