Royce Rolls Read online

  “You think he sold you out?” Bentley grabbed Bach by the arm. “I thought you said the Poker Club was a legit school activity.”

  “It was. Just not the part where we gambled with real money. During real school hours. And especially not the part where Jake wanted his money back.” Bach sounded grim.

  “Okay. Yeah. That’s not so good,” Bentley said. She turned to look at her brother, but he wasn’t there anymore.

  Crap.

  He was making a beeline for his locker, though she could already see it was too late. The cop was standing there waiting for him. And worse, there were at least five kids recording the scene on their cell phones.

  “What are you doing to my locker?” Bach stopped in his tracks when he noticed the crowbar in the cop’s hand. Bent caught up to him.

  The detective looked at Bach. “You Maybach Royce?”

  Bach nodded.

  “Detective Harry Connolly. You can just call me Harry.” He held out his hand. Bach looked at him strangely, and then shook it. “Excellent timing. Why don’t you do me a favor and open your locker, Mr. Royce?”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “I’m a detective. We know things. It sort of goes with the job.” He rapped on the locker. “Now open it.”

  Bach remained still. He didn’t unfold his arms. “You don’t have the right to open that. You don’t have probable cause.”

  Harry smiled again. “How about you probably should stop talking, ’cause this is going to be opened.”

  But Bach wasn’t smiling now.

  Bentley could see his face, and could see how angry her brother really was. She didn’t know why she hadn’t seen it before.

  He was full of rage.

  This wasn’t Bach; at least, it wasn’t who he used to be.

  This was just where his life had dragged him.

  Bent knew the feeling herself, and she also knew how desperately she didn’t want to feel it.

  Harry waited for a moment, then shrugged and held up his crowbar. “Suit yourself. I could probably use the workout, you know?” He pried the locker open within a matter of three seconds. It popped off like the lid to a Pringles can.

  “Now, what do we have here?”

  The locker was all but empty; nobody at Mulholland Hall ever used their lockers for books. Most of the students didn’t study enough for that, and the ones who did were so nerdy, they carried everything on them. The lockers were the no-man’s-land of the school; nobody wanted to be there, and nothing good happened there. Better to keep away.

  Bentley had thought Bach knew that as well, but apparently not, because there was something in his locker.

  Only one thing.

  A bag she hadn’t seen in years.

  “Look at that.” Harry pulled it out and held it up: an old black mini duffel. Prada. Small. Very used.

  And very familiar to Bentley, because in ninth grade, it had been hers.

  “What the . . . ?” Bach looked startled.

  “You stole my bag?!” Bentley jumped in, all guns firing. “What the hell, Bach? How many times do I have to tell you to leave my stuff alone? I swear to god, I’m getting a padlock on my door.”

  Harry unzipped the bag. “So this is your bag, Ms. Royce? Then maybe you could tell me where you got all this cash?”

  He pulled out a thick roll of money—Bach’s gambling winnings—followed by a black notebook. If she knew her brother, it was probably some kind of detailed accounting of the Poker Club’s dealings. (Bach had problems, but a lack of organizational skill wasn’t one of them.)

  Harry flipped open the book, studying neat rows of entries—with dates and dollar amounts and, if she wasn’t mistaken, something that looked a whole lot like betting odds.

  Bentley looked at Bach questioningly.

  “Bent,” he said.

  “Shut up,” she said, cutting him off.

  He didn’t have to tell her. She’d known before he’d said a word.

  He wasn’t only into poker.

  He was a bookie, just like a certain demolition derby bookie they both knew. One who used to run the most profitable operation in all of Sanpete, Sevier, and Beaver Counties.

  Don’t think about it. Not now. Not yet.

  The detective looked up from the book. “You running some kind of gambling ring here, Bentley? Where’d you get all this cash?”

  Bach looked away.

  Get it together, Bent. You can do it. Well, not you.

  You know who you need right now, don’t you?

  Bad Bentley took a deep breath. “Where did I get all that cash?” She shook her head. “Why don’t you tell me, Harry? Since you’re probably the guy who put it there. Or is Headmaster Collins the one on Lifespan’s payroll now?”

  “That’s enough.” Harry frowned. “I think it’s time we take a little ride, Ms. Royce.”

  She smiled. “They always have a guy, Harry. Don’t you know that? Did you really think you were the first?”

  A reflexive murmur rippled through the crowd around them. She knew how the story would go, and how much bigger it would be by the end of the day. Bad Bentley was a pro at these things. She’d seen it all.

  “Bent,” Bach began.

  But Bent grabbed her brother by the arm and squeezed as hard as she could.

  Shut up.

  Besides, it was true. The backpack really was hers. A long, long time ago. But it was also true that Bach was her little brother, and her person.

  Her one always person, even in her alonenotalone world.

  Venice would have understood.

  Bent took another breath, a deeper one. She looked at Harry and held out her wrists. “Come on, Harry. Let’s do this.”

  Bach was red-faced and shaking. He actually looked so stricken, Bentley thought he might throw up. Harry pulled her hands behind her back to cuff her. “I’ve got this, Bach. But do us both a favor? You probably shouldn’t call Mercedes.”

  The cuffs went on without another word.

  Half the class had the footage up on YouTube by the time the police car reached the Rampart station downtown.

  Bentley didn’t know who had tipped off the paparazzi, but they were there waiting when the squad car she was riding in got off the 110 North at the Sixth Street exit. When she saw that Mac and Ted and JoJo were standing with their handhelds among the throng of cameras, she was almost relieved.

  It was the final confirmation of what she’d suspected all along.

  She knew exactly who had set her up.

  She pulled her sweatshirt up over her head as they led her inside. It only made them shoot her more.

  The next time she saw him, Harry was reading a magazine in the interrogation room. “Did you know you can surf without even a beach?”

  “Excuse me?” Bent sat up and tried to look at the picture he was studying, but she was handcuffed to a bar that ran along the edge of the table, and it was impossible to move too much in any one direction.

  Harry looked up. “Ah, sorry about that.” He leaned over and stuck a key into her cuffs, pausing only to look her in the eye for a moment. “You’re not going to try to kill me, are you?”

  “No. I’m really not,” Bent said. “Too tired.”

  “I hear you.” Harry sat back down and picked up his magazine again. “This says the best waves are out in the middle of the ocean where nobody can even see them.”

  Bent raised an eyebrow. “If nobody can see them, then how do you know they’re the best?”

  “Good point. You can’t always believe everything you read in a magazine, can you?” He held up his copy of MovieSt*r. “I guess if you’re rich enough, you buy a yacht the size of an aircraft carrier, and then you spend all year long trying to find them. The waves. If it’s this time of year, you park it outside the Marshall Islands.73 Where there are no beaches and no hotels.” He tapped on a towheaded surfer’s tanned face, on the middle of the page. “Only this poor loser.”74

  “He’s not poor if he’s on a ya
cht the size of an aircraft carrier,” Bentley pointed out. She was too exhausted for this conversation.

  “Yeah, really. I guess you’re right.” Harry laughed. “Whoever that poor loser is, he’s not as poor as a cop—or even a detective.”

  She nodded. “Anyway, like you just said, that stuff is all lies, you know?”

  “Yeah, well, everyone lies. Mothers, kids, cops. You don’t need a tabloid for that.” He laughed and put down the magazine.

  Tell me about it, she thought. Then she looked at Harry. “Speaking of lies, you don’t really think I have anything to do with that junk in my bag, do you?”

  “It’s in your bag, isn’t it?”

  “It sure is, Detective.” Bent yawned. “You did a bang-up job making sure of that. Especially for a new guy. Where’d you find it, my closet? What, did you send someone from Wardrobe after it? Speaking of which, who hired you—Jeff Grunburg? Pam?”

  Harry looked at her. “Let me give you some advice.”

  “Please don’t.”

  “It’s free,” Harry said.

  “Nothing’s free,” Bentley said.75

  “It’s possible that I was asked to make sure your brother’s stash found its way into your bag.”

  “Possible?”

  Harry shrugged. “But you have to understand, they did it for your brother.”

  Bent raised an eyebrow. “When they sent me to fake rehab, was that for my brother?”

  “Look, kid. One of Maybach’s unhappy customers ratted him out to the school. That’s not a fake problem.”

  “I know.” She sighed. “I mean, I figured.”

  “The people who hired me just thought you could take the hit, you know, deal with the trouble better than he could.”

  “Yeah, Bad Bentley. I get that a lot.” Dealing with the trouble was all she had ever known.

  Harry nodded. “Well, you may be a bad Bentley, but you’re a good sister. Misguided, but a good sister.” He rubbed his hand through his hair. “I’m not supposed to say this, but I’m going to. Screw Grunburg, he’s a little tool.”76

  Bent was surprised.

  Harry sat up in his chair. “The thing is, you’re not doing your brother any favors by taking the fall. You might think you are, but you aren’t.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yeah. Consequences. That’s the one thing nobody in this town ever wants to know about. But you do the crime, you should do the time.”

  “And then you say that line.” Bent rolled her eyes. “Are you going to let me go? They usually let me go after a few hours.”

  Harry looked serious. “Not this time. This is a legit bust, not trumped-up evidence. I gotta figure a way through this. I can’t toss you into jail for something you didn’t do, but someone has to take the rap for running an illegal poker game.”

  Bent looked at him sympathetically. “Don’t worry, new guy. You’ll figure it out. The guy sitting in your chair always does.”

  “Yeah? Because from this side of the desk, it’s not worth the twenty-five grand.”

  “Twenty-five? You should get a better agent,” Bent said.

  Harry laughed.

  “Hey, don’t I get a phone call or something?” Bentley pointed to Harry’s phone.

  “Only in the movies.”

  “Really?”

  “Nah. I’m just pulling your chain.” He dropped his phone on the table in front of her. “Knock yourself out.”

  Bentley hit a series of buttons from memory and then waited on the line. “Hi, Dirk. Is he in? It’s sort of important.”

  “What are you doing?” Harry hissed.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not going to get you fired,” she hissed back.

  Then Bent pressed SPEAKER and held up the phone. She didn’t even have to try to bring Bad Bentley back up to the surface now. Not for this phone call.

  A voice crackled on the line. “This is Jeff.”

  “Hi, Jeff. It’s Bentley—and Harry.”

  “Hi, Jeff,” Harry said anxiously, looking at her.

  “Hi, Bentley. Who the hell is Harry?”

  Bent rolled her eyes at Harry. “Your new guy. Down at Rampart. He’s great. We love the Harry.”

  “I don’t have a guy at Rampart.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I got it. Funny stuff, Jeff. Anyhoo, we’re calling from the precinct to let you know the deal. After talking it through with Harry—again, great choice—I’ve decided to take the heat for Bach on this one. Full press cycle. Print, digital, limited live interview if I have to. Your call.” She winced. “Well, maybe not the blonde at Entertainment Tomorrow. Otherwise, your call.”

  “And?” The voice on the speaker sounded interested. Harry looked surprised.

  Bent smiled at Harry. “As much as we both know you’d love to play the gambling-addiction story out, we also both know you can’t afford for him to actually get arrested for . . .”

  She looked at Harry. Harry wrote a word on the notepad between them.

  “Racketeering.” She gave Harry a thumbs-up and mouthed thank you.

  “Go on,” Jeff grunted.

  “So I take the heat, and my brother goes . . . let’s call it backpacking . . . in Europe . . . Eastern Europe, somewhere with terrible reception . . . and by that I mean rehab, real rehab, for his gambling problem, which is also real.”

  The speaker crackled. “On hiatus?”

  “Immediately.”

  The speaker crackled again. “Thirty days.”

  “Yeah, we’re going to need sixty.”

  The speaker went silent, except for static. Bent leaned toward the phone. “Are you following, Jeff? Stay with me, buddy.”

  “Go on,” the voice said slowly.

  “He’s going to need a sober companion. I’ve looked it up, I can send you a name.”

  “And?” asked the voice.

  “That’s it. You have twenty-four hours to think about it. I’d talk through it in more detail with you, but hey, it turns out I’m in jail, so that’s awkward.” She looked at Harry. “And my good friend Harry? He’s telling me that twenty-five g’s isn’t going to work anymore. He needs fifty.” She looked at Harry again. “Fifty and a new suit. He’ll call you back with the size.”

  The voice over the speaker began to curse as she hung up the phone.77

  She exhaled.

  Harry looked at her in amazement. “Wow. That was quite a performance.”

  “Bad Bentley?” She made a dismissive face. “That was nothing. You clearly haven’t met my mother. Ten times scarier than I could ever be. It’s, like, a superpower.”

  Bent handed Harry back his phone, stopping to stare at the photograph that he’d chosen as his wallpaper. “Is that Mexico?”

  “Yeah. Good eye. Sayulita. I got a little place down there. A shack, really. Surfing town, just north of Puerto Vallarta.”78

  “No yacht in the Marshall Islands?”

  “Yeah, don’t I wish. Why do you think I took the Lifespan job? Next time someone hands me a million bucks, it’s first on my list.”

  “Only one million? I don’t think so. I hate to break it to you, but a million doesn’t get you too far these days. And aren’t you a little old for surfing?”

  “Yeah. A lot old.” Harry laughed. “And it feels that way too.”

  “But you don’t care?”

  “About what?”

  “I don’t know. About what people think. About what you’re supposed to be doing. Old guys like you.” She shrugged.

  He laughed. “Nobody gives a rat crap what I do.” It sounded like the truth, and Harry seemed fine with it.

  As far as dirty cops went, this one wasn’t half bad.

  She looked up at him. “Can I get just one more call?”

  The desk sergeant looked up. “Can I help you?”

  Venice dropped the hood of his sweatshirt and looked around. “Uh, hi. I got a call. I’m here to post bail for a friend of mine.”

  “Name?”

  “Bentley.”

&nb
sp; “Last name?”

  “Royce.”

  “I got this one,” a detective said, looking up with amusement from a row of seats near the door. He stood, holding a paper cup of precinct coffee.

  “I’m Connolly. Detective Harry Connolly. You must be Bentley’s phone call. The Santa Monica Public Library. I didn’t really believe it when she told me. It’s not exactly Fort Knox.” Harry held out his hand. “And you’re . . . Venice? What kind of name is that?”

  Venice clasped Harry’s hand. “I don’t know, just a name. What kind of name is Harry?”

  “The kind your mother gives you when she’s setting you up for a lifetime of playground beatdowns.” Harry smiled. “She had a thing for British royals.”

  Venice looked at the detective. “Is Bentley in a lot of trouble?”

  “She just got busted for running a high school gambling ring, so yeah, I’d say so.”

  Venice raised an eyebrow. “I think you’ve got the wrong Royce.”

  “Yeah, I hear you. I don’t make the big calls. These things are complicated.” Harry shrugged. “Bail hearing’s set for tomorrow. Might not stick, but you never know. Have to prepare for the worst.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “She’s hanging tough. Poor kid.” Harry shook his head. “I really don’t get this Hollywood stuff.”

  “Me neither.” Venice nodded and reached into the frayed pocket of his hoodie. He pulled out a blank check. “For the bail bond. Do I give this to you?”

  Harry took it. “You sure? Like I said, the bail hearing isn’t until tomorrow. It could be a big chunk of change.”

  “I’m sure.”

  Harry whistled. “You got it bad, kid.”

  BIG SLAM ON CAMPUS—BENTLEY ROYCE BUSTED, BACH ROYCE BAILS

  AP: Beverly Hills, California

  Via Celebcity.com

  The trouble only continues for teen television personality Bentley Royce, as footage posted on social media today confirmed that she was picked up by two Los Angeles Police Department officers at her tony hillside school, Mulholland Hall.

  Video of the arrest has been virally shared across global transmedia sites in over thirty-eight languages and nearly fifty countries. More than a quarter of a million people have viewed the footage since this afternoon.