“Don’t worry about me getting to Mitchell. He’s holed up with that other faggot—the singer.” Parker sneered. “Probably going to drop Murphy now that he’s gone back to his original bang-buddy. Simple enough to pick them off when they go out to take a walk. From what you told me, he’d want to strut around now that he’s back in the thick of things. Won’t be long now. Is that why you called me in? To complain about how I’m doing things?”
“No, not really. I wanted you to do something for me.” Another envelope joined the first one, and Parker cocked his head, curious at the thick packets. “I figured out a way to get a hold of the boy’s estate, but first, I’m going to need your help to make it more… profitable.”
“How much more profitable can it be?” Parker’s fingers itched to snatch the envelopes and count what the man thought another kill was worth. “You’ll get everything, right? Once I dump your brother’s body for someone to find.”
“Not quite everything,” the man cautioned. “Everything’s going to be tied up in legal for a while, so we have some time where Mitchell’s concerned, but I found out something interesting. St. John never altered his will after the accident.”
“So?” He glanced over his shoulder, wondering if he should refill his glass. If the man was going to talk much longer, Parker thought he’d merely bring the decanter back with him.
“So, the bulk of profits for their estates are tied up in the commercial rights to their songs, rights St. John and Mitchell bequeathed to one another. The other two band members were listed on some tracks, but the majority are owned by them… or rather for right now, St. John.” His employer wheeled his chair back from the desk, heaving his belly up as he reclined. “Once Mitchell is declared… resurrected, the rights are split again. No matter how it falls, it has to fall to me. I need that money.”
“So you want me to kill Mitchell before that happens?” Parker crooked an eyebrow at the sweating man. From the stress in the man’s face and voice, maybe the crap alcohol was all he could afford.
“No, I want you to kill St. John.” His crocodilian smile stretched over his face, his cheeks folding around the edges of his lips. “That way the rights become Mitchell’s, and that way, after you take care of him, they become mine.”
“THEY’RE like puppies.” Sionn leaned against the kitchen’s archway and sipped his beer as his cousin fired up the grill in the warehouse’s stove. “I’d be jealous if I thought they loved each other that way.”
“Puppies?” Kane glanced over his shoulder at Sionn. “I figured otters. Miki’s boneless. He and D are always wrapped around each other, chortling. And they get into fucking everything. I’d be more worried about them taking over the world than fucking.”
The sound of a guitar being played came from the living room area. Then Miki’s raspy, liquid gold singing joined in, weaving in the anguished emotions of loss and death. Kane’s handsome features creased momentarily with a frown; then he shook his head at the words coming out of his lover’s mouth.
“Is it hard to listen to?” Sionn padded into the kitchen and pulled a chair out from under a small square table some designer thought breakfast could be served on. He turned it around, straddled its seat, and watched his cousin salt a pair of large steaks before tossing them on the hot grill. “You know, the stuff about the accident.”
“Yeah, a little bit,” Kane admitted after a moment. “Mostly because I know losing them killed something inside of him. Even with Damie back, he mourns the band. It was something solid he could hold onto. Something he built up. With it gone, he felt like he’s got nothing again.”
“Even with you?”
“Even with me.” Kane laughed. “Even with that fucking dog.”
The dog in question barely looked up from the bowl of meat scraps Kane had put down on the floor. The steel dish rattled across the kitchen as Dude chased a scrap clinging to its side. Sionn bent down and grabbed the bowl before it could skitter beneath his chair, held it still for the dog to lick up the last bits. Dude’s tail wagged furiously for a moment, and Sionn scratched at his ears. Giving the cousins a terrier smile, he belched, then waddled off into the living room.
“Classy broad, that dog,” Kane muttered. “He’s more of a rock star than Miki. Don’t put your beer down. He’ll suck it right up.”
“Sounds like Con,” Sionn teased. “’Course, same with you and Riley too. Quinn… now there’s some manners.”
“Yeah, Mom’s glad one of her boys knows what fork to use.” The steaks sizzled, and Kane reached for his own beer, letting the meat sear. “I can’t believe you didn’t know about me and Miki.”
“Had other things on my mind. Shit, even what Damie said wasn’t really a lot about you. Just Miki and his hardcore, violent cop boyfriend.” He shrugged, moving his leg to avoid Kane’s halfhearted kick at his shin. “Not like anyone called me up and said ‘Hey, Sionn, your cuz is fucking Miki St. John. Come on over and get a free CD’ or summat.”
“Well, if you’d come to dinner, you’d have found out,” Kane muttered. “Mom was about ready to go down there and harpoon you like you were her white whale.”