by J. Kenner
Chapter Twelve
“William Atkinson,” Ryan said, speaking into his headset as he exited the elevator. “Felicia’s uncle. I need an address.” He’d just left Jamie in the suite—and the view of her laid out naked on the bed for him, her body flush with desire—had painted what felt like a permanent smile on his face, despite the dicey circumstances swirling around them. Now, though, he’d thoroughly shifted gears. And the sooner he did the work, the sooner he could get back to his wife.
“Sure,” Baxter said on the other end of the line. “One second.” It took closer to fifteen seconds, but then Baxter rattled it off. “It was Randall’s house in Kensington. I can’t see all the information without going deeper—that would take some time—but looks like he’s renting it. I would have thought he’d inherit.”
“Probably a tax thing,” Ryan said, thinking of all the holding companies his friend Damien had set up over the years.
He crossed the lobby, then stepped outside and signaled for the valet to call a taxi as Baxter continued. “Looks like there’s nobody else with an interest in the property.” His voice on the call crackled slightly as Ryan stepped up to the approaching cab. “Did Randall have any other family?”
“Just Felicia,” Ryan said as he settled in the backseat. “And William’s his stepbrother, by the way. About fifteen years older if I remember right. Their mother had William when she was a teen. She married Randall’s father—his name’s Harold—in her mid-twenties when William was about ten. She died when William was at university. A riding accident, I think.”
Felicia had told him the story during their escape. By that time, he’d heard most of it already. He’d gone on the mission knowing he might have to pose as her husband or fiancé, and it made sense to know as much about her and her family as possible.
“I don’t think Harold ever considered William his son. I know Harold left the entire estate—and it was massive—to Randall.”
“Ouch.”
“That’s what I thought. But Felicia said her uncle was cool about it. He didn’t like Harold and didn’t want his hand-me-downs. She adored him. Which is why I want to let him know some of what’s going on.”
“And try to find out if he has any information on where she is, what she’s up to, or if she was ever even dead.”
“Sharp man,” Ryan said. “And that’s why I hired you.”
Baxter laughed, and they ended the call just as the cab pulled out onto the street. He gave the driver the address, then got back on his phone, this time responding to the text from Gabby or whoever the hell had been contacting him. She hadn’t answered last night, and he didn’t expect an answer now, but he was going to damn well keep trying.
I’m alone and can talk. Worried about you. Why are you running from me?
He closed the app and started checking his emails, relieved to see that there were still no crises brewing and his staff was handling the system upgrade beautifully.
He was responding to a question about a server upgrade when a text flashed over the top of his screen—Does Jamie know?
He frowned. Did she mean did Jamie know that he’d been married? Or did Jamie know that Gabby was Felicia? He didn’t know and settled on a noncommittal response.
She’s worried about you.
He waited, the phone tight in his hand, but no response came. Another block, another turn. Still nothing.
Felicia. Are you there?
A moment. Then…
I’m here.
Ryan drew in a breath, then opened his text thread with Baxter. He quickly tapped out the situation, gave Baxter the new number she was texting from, and mentally crossed his fingers.
Tell me what you need. Tell me why you reached out to me, only to run from me.
I’m scared.
Of me?
I don’t know.
Ryan started to answer, but before he finished, another message popped up.
I want to talk. Public. Your hotel. I’ll sit at the bar. We can move to a table, but only if there are other people near us.
Fine.
Now?
He hesitated. Not there now but can cancel plans and come back.
He waited for her to answer, hoping she hadn’t changed her mind.
Thirty long seconds passed, and he couldn’t stand it anymore. Felicia?
One. I’ll be there at one.
He considered that. He hadn’t intended to leave Jamie that long, but it was still less time than he’d left her in the past. It had started almost as a game—leaving her so she could calm down and get centered. But it had become much more.
Alright. I’ll see you at one.
I’m tossing this phone. I’ll have another new number when you see me.
That didn’t surprise him.
Okay. See you then.
But there was no answer. Apparently, she’d already tossed the phone.
Immediately, he called Baxter. “Did you get her location?”
“You won’t believe it.”
“I think I will. Is she near the hotel?”
“That she is,” Baxter says. “Or was when we pinged her.”
Using a Type-O or “Silent” SMS, Baxter had essentially pinged her phone to capture her location. Then he’d used Stark Security’s various resources to triangulate a location. Unfortunately, it wasn’t exact, which meant it would take some time to find the phone she’d ditched, but Ryan was certain Baxter and his team were up to the task.
“She won’t be there now,” Ryan said. “But she tossed her phone. Get a team to find it.”
“On it,” Baxter said. “We’ll start with the public trashcans near the hotel and work our way out. I doubt she was in the lobby. That would be a little too ballsy.”
“Contact me when you have the phone,” Ryan said. “Let’s see what we can get off her SIM card. And get the IT team to hack her password.”
“Will do. By the way, I did a quick search on William. His first wife died not long after Felicia disappeared. He went on a drinking binge, ended up marrying a woman named Carolyn Grey. Old money family that’s been living on credit for at least a generation. It’s her second marriage, and she’s got a son, Patrick. He’s a doctor who lives in Belgium. But Carolyn and William don’t have any children together.”
“Thanks. I just got to William’s house. I’ll call when I’m free for an update.”
“You got it, boss,” Baxter said, then clicked off.
Ryan paid the driver, then slipped out of the cab and stood for a moment on the sidewalk outside the majestic property. He guessed that the grandiose home had been built in the mid-nineteenth century. It still stood tall and proud, but it had become a bit shabby around the edges. The gardens weren’t quite tended. The paint wasn’t quite fresh. A few weeds peeked up between the stones leading to the front door, and the polish on the wood of the foreboding entrance seemed dull and lackluster.
Still, the grounds were clean, and when the maid ushered him in, he saw that the interior was tidy. But it, too, had an air of neglect, as if the overwhelming home was simply too much for the occupants.
Perhaps Randall hadn’t left the property to William. Maybe he’d left it to someone else, or even to his own corporation, and William was simply a renter. But even so, why not do a better job maintaining such a stunning residence?
An interesting question, but not one he spent much time pondering. How the Cartwright and Atkinson families lived wasn’t his concern. He was there only to update William on the mystery surrounding his niece.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the maid said the moment she opened the door. “Mrs. Atkinson is out.”
“I actually need to speak to Mr. Atkinson, if he’s available. I’m a friend of his late niece.”
“Oh. I see. One moment.” She was the picture of polite efficiency, but Ryan couldn’t help but think that there was something awkward about her manner. As if this wasn’t a request she fielded often, if at all.
She disappeared but returned soon
enough, asking him to follow. The rest of the interior bolstered his impression of the exterior. The place was only minimally maintained. The staff kept it clean, but there was still the sense that the mansion was only biding its time. Basically, the place needed some good old-fashioned TLC.
They entered the library, the first room he’d seen that appeared to be regularly cleaned and maintained. But despite the polished floors and dust-free shelves and fixtures, the room had a musty, pungent smell. Old books, Ryan thought. And something else. Something less pleasant than the comfortable scent of paper and glue and ink. Hospital. That was it, he realized. The room had the underlying stench of death.
As he looked toward the far corner of the room, he saw why. An elderly man sat in a dark corner in a huge leather recliner, a heavy walking stick propped within arm’s length. A dark blanket covered most of his body, but the eyes behind his glasses were alert as he lifted a pen and signaled to Ryan.
“Who the hell are you?” The voice held unexpected strength and humor.
“Ryan Hunter. I knew your niece, Felicia.”
He waved his hand. “Come where I can see you. And you, you stay over there.”
Ryan turned to see that the maid was still in the room. Now she settled into a chair in the corner. She reached into a basket at her feet and began to knit. Apparently, she spent a lot of time in that corner, and Ryan presumed that she was more nurse than maid these days.
As ordered, he stepped closer, and as his eyes adjusted, he saw that William looked older than his seventy-six years. A man who’d been worn down by more than just time.
“You did a bit more than know her,” William said, and the small smile alone seemed to make him stronger. “The way Randall told me, you married her. Tried to save her.”
“I did. I didn’t realize Mr. Cartwright had told you. The circumstances were…odd.”
William chuckled. “They were indeed. That girl was always getting into odd situations. Adored that little thing. Special. That’s what she was. Couldn’t have loved her more if she’d been my own blood grandchild. Hell, I couldn’t have loved her more if there’d been two of her.”
“She was special, yes. But sir, I was hoping to ask you—”
“Poppycock!”
Ryan straightened. “I’m sorry?”
“No, no. Not no.” He tapped the end of the pen on a flimsy paper book in his lap. “The puzzle. Crossword. This one’s been a mighty bugger, but I finally conquered it.” He closed the book, then held it out. “Well, come here.”
Ryan came, then took the book that the man extended. “Ah, shall I toss it?”
“Heavens no.” He lowered his voice. “Been doing crosswords all my life. Always save the books.” He spoke with the seriousness of someone revealing state secrets.
William gestured to a shelf stacked with magazines and other books, and Ryan added the latest completed book of crosswords to the pile.
“Bring me a fresh book,” William said. “Then tell me why you’re here. Something about my house in Somerset, wasn’t it? I do miss the country life.”
“Actually, I’m trying to learn the name of an attorney that Randall had retained for some private affairs. Did he ever mention the lawyer to you?”
William made a phht noise. “I wasn’t involved in the business. Hate lawyers. Damn snakes. I saw a python once. Marvelous creature.”
Ryan drew in a breath. “They are. Yes.” He cleared his throat. “Actually, I’m concerned that someone may be impersonating Felicia,” Ryan said as he handed him the new book.
“What? Now?” William opened the book and started scribbling in answers.
“Yes, sir. Has anyone contacted you suggesting that your niece is alive? Or suggesting that she is your niece?”
The man peered at him. “Why would they?”
“Sometimes people do odd things.” He was glad to know Felicia hadn’t been gaslighting her uncle, but that only doubled down on the question of what her endgame was.
“Deadlocked.”
“I’m sorry?”
“The word, the word.” He tapped the pen. “Pay attention, boy. A four-letter word for deadlocked.”
“Ah, even?”
William pointed the pen at him. “Clever. I do imagine she’s nearby, sometimes.” He sighed. “The regrets of an old man, I suppose. I used to enjoy talking with her. Had a good head on her shoulders.” He sighed. “Even after all this time, I’ll still catch a glimpse of her, and it takes me back.”
“A glimpse?”
He waved the words away. “Imagination, my wife says. And I suppose she’s right. And I’m getting old. Used to be I only thought about her. Or I’d notice someone and see the resemblance. Now I’m starting to see Felicia herself.”
Ryan took a step forward without realizing it. “Have you? How often?”
“Oh, no. Just the one time. About a week ago. If it happens again, I’ll have to tell my doctor.” He picked up the large walking stick and easily held it level. Apparently the man was stronger than he looked.
He was pointing it toward the window across the room. The one which faced the street. “Right there on the sidewalk. Told my wife, too. Made her come look. She said I was imagining things.” He sighed. “I probably was. Ahh, who can say? Pass me that book.”
It took a second for Ryan to shift gears, but he followed William’s sightline to the small table topped by a crossword puzzle dictionary and an illustrated history of China.
“Both of them. Can’t do my puzzles if I don’t stay sharp.”
“No, sir,” Ryan said, amused. “This is a wonderful library, by the way. And the house is pretty spiffy, too.”
William chuckled. “Spiffy, is it? I agree with you on the library. This room—it’s like a treasure to me. The rest of the house? More like an albatross.”
Ryan nodded. “I imagine it’s difficult to maintain.”
William waved a hand. “Phht. That’s what staff’s for. I’d rather move back to Somerset. Grew up there, but my wife loves London. She’s determined we keep the place.” His shoulders sagged. “Feels like blood money to me. This place should have been Felicia’s. That poor girl. Never should have gone down there. You’re a good man to have gone after her.”
“I tried,” Ryan said, feeling the familiar tug of guilt in his stomach. “I failed.”
“You tried,” William said firmly. “There are a lot who wouldn’t even have done that.”
“I admired her very much,” Ryan admitted. And now he feared that she’d been playing him all along.
He sighed, trying to decide what to say next. He didn’t want to tell this kind man that his niece seemed to have resurfaced—and that there was good reason to believe that her sudden reappearance meant that she’d been a spy all those years ago. Not just in intelligence, but actively involved in bringing about the coup.
But did William deserve to know? Would he start imagining her everywhere? That couldn’t be good for him.
No, better to stick with his original intent and not tell William anything. Not now. Maybe not ever. Only if it became imperative. Because how the hell could he bear to give such dark news to an old man who’d loved a little girl?
On the other side of the room, the maid rang a bell. “Time for your medicine, Mr. William,” she said, going to a sideboard and returning with a glass of water and a tiny paper cup. “Mrs. Carolyn made me promise to remind you to nap. You know what the doctor said.”
“The hell I do. I don’t even remember the damn appointment.”
“I think that’s the point, sir.” She smiled politely at Ryan. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to cut this short.”
“Hmmph. My wife’s got this one wrapped around her finger. Watches me like a bloody hawk.”
“It’s fine,” Ryan said, making up his mind to stay silent. “Thank you, Mr. Atkinson, for being so hospitable.”
“Wait! Wait! Let me write down the number for that estate agent. He can show you the Somerset house. You
take a look, now.” He scribbled a phone number in the crossword puzzle book, then ripped out the page for Ryan.
“Of course.” Ryan folded the note and put it in his pocket. “I’ll call right away.”
“Good.” William beamed. “It was a pleasure to meet you,” he added, taking the pills from the maid as Ryan showed himself out.
He waited until he was in the cab to look at the paper, and when he did, he saw a litany of random words filling in the boxes. THECATANDTHEHAT. SUN. ONLY. And on and on and on.
But there was a phone number at the top, and that had to mean something. William had made such a point of not only keeping his crossword books, but of keeping them neat. He’d made an exception for Ryan, and the only reason Ryan could deduce was that he was delivering a message.
The number, however, was out of service.
“Fuck.”
Maybe it was a safe combination. Maybe it was a code. Maybe it was nonsense from a confused old man. Double fuck.
Whatever it was, he’d have to figure it out later.
As the cab pulled up in front of the Stark Century, he folded the paper and shoved it back into his pocket. Then he went inside and settled in at a two-top in the bar. It was still half an hour before noon, and he usually didn’t drink at lunch anyway, but today he needed one, and he sipped on a Scotch as Baxter slid into the chair across from him.
“Club soda with lime, thanks,” Bax told the waitress. “And a whole slew of ice cubes.”
“No problem.”
“It still won’t be enough ice,” he told Ryan as soon as she was out of earshot. “I grew up in Florida. I like a cold drink. And here you go,” he added, plunking a cell phone onto the middle of the table without pausing for breath or changing his tone.
“Good work.”
“We got lucky. She tossed it in the bin on the corner just one block over. Odd, though.”
“What’s that?”
“I expected it to be a cheap burner phone, considering the nature of what she was sending you and what we suspect about her. And since I couldn’t trace those texts back to anyone. But it seems to be her actual cell phone. Gabriella Anderson’s, I mean.”
