by Elle Cross
"It's already done," she said with a wave of her hand. Indeed, the nanny had already fixed the tray and wheeled it out. "And call me Linda. Mrs. Sanderson seems so old and stuffy. Like Owen's mother." She snorted at her joke, then swallowed a sob.
"So Detective," she said as she plopped on to a love seat while Corbin and I balanced on a chaise longue. "Have you found my husband's killer?" An odoriferous Technicolor of emotions rose from Mrs. Sanderson.
It was a good thing I was used to schooling my features in the face of my clients' many issues. I’d become accustomed to the wide range of scents that might come up during an emotional siphoning.
I saw a little of myself in Linda. We had the same taste in classic, modern lines and casual elegance. But, where I chose them for lasting comfort and simplicity, she wore her clothes as she did her family name. As her status.
Her shield.
I was used to shields.
And, now that I knew what to look for, what scent to follow, I saw through hers rather easily. Like how I could see the green-grayish tone to her skin despite the slick veneer of artfully applied makeup.
I stared at Linda over the rim of my cup as I sipped at my coffee, savoring the scents and flavors. Lords Above, I wasn't enjoying what I was smelling coming from Linda.
Fortified, I placed my coffee down carefully on the coffee table, and slowly placed my hand over hers. Just a light touch and release.
"Just checking some notes, Linda," Corbin said. "You said that your husband was away, correct? That you had thought he was gone and that's why you weren't concerned about filing a missing persons’ report."
"Oh. Yes. Business. He traveled a lot for business." She slumped in on herself, one arm around her middle, the other crossed over her, hand spasming against her neck.
Even her body didn't believe that lie. An easy enough tell to anyone with eyes that she held something back.
Linda's expression was bleak, emphasizing the dark smudges under her eyes that no concealer could touch.
I felt it then. Power and like a magnet I was drawn to it. The source was a little boy.
The kid. Her son. Lords Above, I hoped he really was her son.
Even without his crisp scent of honeyed apples and falling leaves, I knew what he was. Brian was what the media called ‘a child of the gods’, which was the polite way of saying ‘bastard of a one-night-stand with a god’. Sure, his large green eyes, olive skin, and halo of midnight black hair obviously came from a different genetic pool than Linda's pale, muted offerings, but what marked him as other, as one of the Remnant God tribes, were the shadows that swirled and bent to him in his wake. Like he was the event horizon of a black hole and not even light could escape his gravity.
All that power in the body of a boy.
I fidgeted with my demi-gloves, curled my fingers into my palms to keep from reaching out and pulling at the fringe of power that teased so invitingly.
Brian ran over then, and hugged his chubby arms around Linda’s too-thin one. "Mama?" His forehead furrowed, and he looked at me curiously.
"Oh, baby, Mommy's okay," Linda said, cupping his cherubic face in her hands. "Why don't you go color something for Mommy, okay?" She smiled for him, but her face was still tight, drawn.
I didn't know why parents bothered to pretend. Children picked up more from the unseen and unsaid. And what Linda wasn't saying, all her worry and failures and fears were etched all over her face, reeked from her, even if I was the only one in the room to actually smell the emotions.
"How was your husband's relationship with your son?" I'd sensed something there earlier, so I wanted to work the husband angle carefully.
She bristled a little bit at the thought before settling down. It reminded me of a cat's gesture, with its hackles raised. A warning that said, 'Don't get too close.' Which told me this was exactly the button to push.
This time, without her pride and need to make a good impression, I saw all that I needed to see without hearing her words. In fact, the words she spoke only seemed to muddy things up more with all the lies she told herself.
Her husband traveled a lot for business, sure. But that wasn’t all he did on his trips. He had used his travel as an easy cover to plow anything with legs that wasn't his wife. He never took his conquests home, but he was clear that he needed…fulfillment…elsewhere and found it. Often.
So when he had been gone for the past few weeks, Linda didn't worry. Not until the liquid assets were suddenly drained, with many more tied up in bureaucratic red tape. They had all been under his name.
She had her own family money, of course, but it was quickly running dry with Linda more concerned with appearances than with finding an income stream to replenish her bank accounts. And now, Brian with his constant questions about where his daddy was, and his night terrors. It was all Linda could do to keep it all together.
I was sure that most mothers took on that appearance. Constant worry over a child. The responsibility and duty. The sunlight through the diffused windows were harsh and unforgiving on Linda's features.
I knew when Linda was about to break. It was in the set of her lips, the twisting of fingers. "I wasn't enough! I gave him a son, and I still wasn't enough! He still went to those whores. And you know what, you know what, I don't doubt that it was because of those whores that he died." She broke down in sobs, curled over a plush pillow.
I grazed the hair back from her head, and made her lie down on the couch. It didn’t take long for her to yawn. She hadn’t slept at all.
"You shine like them, you know," she said to me quietly. "You probably smell like them. Beautiful and delicious, he'd say. Something sweet, like fruit. Or honey. Just like them." Her words ended in a trailing whisper, as her eyelids drooped.
The truth in her words, in her perception of her words, made a knot gather in my stomach. Jack's nickname for me came to mind. But, he was the type to use all kinds of endearing names for women, right?
"Owen had a partner. Long ago. Someone he'd buddied up with. Less now than before, but he did." She yawned out the name 'Jules Sandivar.' Why did that name sound familiar? She gestured to a magazine on her coffee table, and Corbin flipped it over. A man mostly naked in the picture, a blanket draped across his waist, three ladies draped across him. I was sure he didn't need this latest new men's cologne he modeled for to get these women on his body.
Whatever else Linda wanted to tell me followed her into the land of dreams. I shushed Linda, and made sure she fell asleep. I was sure that afternoon naps weren't uncommon in this household.
Corbin took a moment to talk to the new nanny, get a feel for others that may have worked here.
I let her work her case as she needed to. I decided to follow the thread of love and light to Brian's room. His door was open. He sat on his bed, back to the entrance.
I knocked softly on the threshold, and he shifted on his bed to face me. "Can I come in?"
He nodded. He had a framed picture in his hands.
"Whatcha got there?"
He handed me the picture. It was a day at the beach, he and his father on the sand. Owen was breath-taking. I could only imagine what he had been in real life, the force of his charisma and charm. His husk of a body, and his memories did not do him justice.
Touching the photo, tracing it, I felt the love. It squeezed at my heart, making me ache. I swallowed it down and handed the picture back to Brian. "Tell me about that day."
"We always went here. Just the two of us. Where we could be ourselves he said." He waited to see judgment, to tell him that it would be best to have included his mother sometimes.
I didn't ask who had taken the photo of them.
"I miss him," he whispered.
I stroked his hair, took away a little of his pain. "Detective Corbin will find the ones who took your father, okay? You need to believe that."
He looked to me with his big eyes and nodded. "I do."
With instructions to the nanny-house-keeper, Mira, to call with an
y new information, Corbin was ready to hunt down Jules Sandivar.
Riverside drive was a lovely car ride that overlooked the water and captured gorgeous sunny views. And the neighborhood was rich with history, full of brick town homes, parks, and a converted subway tunnel turned free space, a pocket of wilderness that would otherwise have been impossible in a steel cave. A generous gift that stemmed from a rare collaboration of Sylph, Ondine, and Salaman powers.
The adjacency to Morningside Heights, Old Harlem, and the Sylvan stronghold made this an ideal neighborhood for an enclave of Remnant God tribes.
Corbin put her hand on the palm plate, and spoke distinctly: "Detective Troy for Jules Sandivar."
An electronic voice responded, Thank you for your interest. One moment.
Corbin would have said more, but the door swung open.
I breathed in sunshine and saltwater taffy. A man filled the doorway. He was backlit by the floor to ceiling windows behind him so that he was haloed in gold.
His presence was too overwhelming. My mind needed to take him in bit by bit.
The smooth, taut expansive chest with the pierced nipple. The rippling abdominals that tapered down into a "V." The crisp little hairs that led from his belly button down to the knotted towel slung dangerously low around his hips.
"Ladies?"
His voice was melted caramel. My breath caught when I drank in his face: he was the embodiment of wishes and nighttime fantasies. His dripping sandy hair fell to his shoulders. Kohl-rimmed eyes accentuated his high cheekbones and full lips. I would have thought features like that would make a man too pretty. But there was nothing pretty about him. He was molten sex come to life. Raw and sensual.
He had a small scar on his cheek that looked like a tear drop. I had an odd compulsion to lick it.
"Detective Troy. For Jules Sandivar." Corbin referred to her notebook, as if questioning nearly naked men were routine.
Then again, I'd never shadowed her on a case. Perhaps lickable men always opened doors when she interviewed witnesses.
"Yes?" He looked at her curiously, head tilted to the side, almost like an animal trying to decide if she were prey.
"Mr. Sandivar?"
He nodded in confirmation.
"I'm investigating a case. May we come inside? Ask a few questions?"
His gaze shifted then to me. He met my open stare, not a challenge or an act of seduction. Merely patient curiosity. Like a bronzed pagan god, accepting praise and worship as his due.
Blessedly, Corbin filled the silence. "This is my civilian consultant, Vesper—"
"Tallinn," he breathed out in an excited exhale. Immediately, his features changed. It was a fascinating study of mercurial shifts. Surprise to sheepish to excitement. "Ladies, please come in, come in." He swept his arm wide in a welcoming bow. His towel was just a breath away from falling completely. The spun sugar of boyish glee that radiated from him complemented his saltwater taffy scent.
He closed the door, clutching his towel. Pity. A hint of wintergreen embarrassment that he wasn't properly dressed diffused a little of my disappointment.
"Please, please make yourself comfortable. Very comfortable. I shall return." He nearly ran down the hall.
"Well," Corbin said when he was safely out of earshot. "I know he was only looking at you, but I decided to make myself very comfortable, too."
I snorted. Then, I caught a whiff of self-satisfaction. Berries-and-cream. "Wait a second." I followed her into the sunken living room, where Corbin was already helping herself to the chocolate-covered pomegranates laid out in a Baccarat crystal bowl.
She looked up when I didn't say anything more. And then I knew. "Oh. My. Lord. Am I bait?"
She swung her face toward me, surprise rounding her aqua eyes. "What? Ew!"
"What then? You seem awfully happy about something." I plopped myself in the chair-and-a-half across from her. I really liked the microfiber fabric. I had even contemplated buying something like it a few months ago. It was smooth and supple without worrying about the direction of the nap. I hated the feel of the wrong side of the nap.
She snorted. "I can't be happy?"
I blinked at her wide-eyed look.
"Oh for fuck's sake!" Corbin sputtered. "I just figured you'd be you know…like a...spoonful of sugar."
I glared at her. "A what?"
"You know. That you'd make things…easier to swallow. And hey, I was right." She popped a few chocolates in her mouth.
"Things like you, you mean?" I stared at her. Hard. "I hope those chocolates are laced with STDs."
She popped another in her mouth. "They're mighty tasty if they are. Look, don't be mad. I know you don't like acknowledging how people respond to you. I get it. You got your privacy thing going on, and I support it. I just figured that you'd have really good luck with these interviews, and see, I was right."
I sighed. I honestly thought I’d be able to help. "Do you even have questions to ask him?"
"Of course. I'll have you know I actually do want to figure out why someone died and all."
"You're right," I said immediately contrite. "I'm sorry, of course, there's a murder. You'd never joke around about that. I just hate being the eye candy. It's so typical and cliché." I crossed my arms.
"I know, that's why I didn't want to say anything. Besides, I never thought of you as eye candy, okay?" She looked up as footsteps drew near, and in a whispered rush she said, "You're my Wingman. Always." She stood up. "Mr. Sandivar, you have a lovely home."
He strode across his spacious apartment that looked more at home in Malibu than in New York. He was dressed in cabana comfort, white linen shirt barely buttoned, linen pants regrettably fastened securely. "Please, please call me Jules." He took Corbin's hand in both of his and held it. Then, he turned to me. I’d taken off my gloves in the car, and didn’t want to risk touching his skin. Before he could grab my hand, I demurred, and stroked the couch.
"Jules, where did you get this lovely couch. I've been thinking of purchasing something like it." I sat in the corner facing sideways, an open invitation to sit next to me.
He took it and plopped beside me.
"I knew you would like it." He started stroking the chair, too. A little too close to my hand. Some people liked to play with fire.
"I had it custom built. I can give you the name of the designer. She would know the fabric used."
"I'd like that." I smiled up at him. His scent turned more toward caramel and espresso. It made my mouth water.
"So, Jules," Corbin said from her perch across the room. "What can you tell me about Owen Sanderson?" She read the name off her notebook, deliberately, as if she'd never seen it before.
Jules had to shift away from me to address her. "Oh, uh, not much. Just an acquaintance of mine."
"Says here, you were his partner and emergency contact."
Wintergreen bloomed off of him, clear and bright. It tickled my nose in a fun way.
"Well, yes, but...you know how it is. It's like...when you don't know anyone in the city, you put anyone as your contact? It's like that." Then he turned to me, as if we were having a conversation about old friends. "Owen and I...we were new, had no money, so we stayed in this group house, like a dorm. We were suitemates. Had our own separate bedrooms, but shared the living room, bathroom. That kind of thing. Oh, where are my manners! I had refreshments. Excuse me."
I shot a look to Corbin, wondering if I was playing things how she wanted.
She signaled something at me. It was too fast, and I was rusty in our sign language.
She signaled again.
I tried to hide my surprise when I deciphered her message.
The familiar scent of coffee with hints of cinnamon, nutmeg, and caramel wafted to me. Not just any coffee. My custom blend.
I didn't say a word, just raised an eyebrow at Corbin. She was already drowning in the stuff. I sipped mine and held onto the cup. An easy prop to distract him from touching my gloveless hands. I wanted to reach in
to my bag for my gloves, but didn't know how to be subtle about it.
He sat down again, this time a little closer. I shifted my bare legs away. He noticed.
To distract him from me, I touched him lightly over his shirt cuff and got him back on topic. "So, you were saying how you stayed in a dorm once with Owen. And here you are in an exclusive neighborhood. How'd you do that?"
"Oh, you know business was good." He flicked his wrist, like this apartment was something that just appeared around him. "So I have to confess, your debut art gallery in SoHo was a true inspiration to me."
I interrupted gently, "You mean, my only gallery."
"I like to think you've been hiding away all these years working on a secret project that you'll unveil to the world someday." He looked at me, shyly through an impossible fringe of lashes, a crooked half-smile pulling up the corner of his mouth. He was almost begging me to confirm or deny it. I merely bit my lip. "Anyway, I told myself if I ever had a chance to meet you, I would tell you how much your art means to me, let you know."
My Lord, was that a fucking dimple?
He continued and I had to strain to follow the words of his conversation. "It was the thing that woke me up. Told me to take charge of my life. Own my own destiny."
His words pricked my heart. Of course, that had been my intention when I had created Invictus. Still, I didn't like thinking about my art, which had once been a source of pure joy. Because of it, though, I now lived on the top floor of La Serenissima, instead of a SoHo loft barely bigger than a bathroom that had gone up in flames.
His ardor and passion was like a living thing, sweet honey rolling over my tongue. It was a balm that soothed the pang from thinking about that time in my life.
He spoke on and on about my art and hinted about perhaps one day needing a muse like me for himself. I didn't really hear most of his words. Only that if he ever stopped talking, I'd likely straddle his lap and have my way with him on this very comfortable couch.
Now, if my dates were anything like him...
