“It doesn’t leave this building,” Shanks said with a nod. “And for the record, DuChamps, I don’t like your attitude. You don’t own this hotel.”
Vincent couldn’t have cared less. “Then cue up the damn footage and get us all out of here quicker.”
Shanks opened the door off the manager’s office to reveal a bank of security monitors and several computers. He took a seat at the table and began tapping at keys. One of the larger monitors flashed and then revealed the bar, along with a date stamp that matched the date of Vincent’s blackout.
“What time?”
“I would have arrived here around six that evening and went straight to the bar,” Vincent replied.
He forwarded through the feed until they got close to the time.
“There she is,” Stanley said, pointing to a corner of the screen.
The dark haired woman was seated at the bar, but kept glancing over her shoulder toward the door as if watching for someone. “She was waiting for you,” Anderson surmised.
“Looks that way,” Shanks agreed reluctantly.
Seeing the footage of himself walking into the bar and ordering the drink, Vincent added, “Can you zoom in and watch the pour?”
Using the mouse, Shanks did just that. The bartender retrieved a bottle of whiskey from the shelf and poured a liberal splash into the glass. But before he handed it to Vincent, he reached into his pocket. It was impossible to see from the grainy footage if he actually dropped something in the glass but he did it pass his hand over it and then swirl the glass.
“You don’t need to stir a whiskey neat,” Anderson pointed out. “Where is this guy now?”
The manager, who’d been watching silently, shook his head. “He didn’t show up for his shift last night.”
“Is that normal?”
The manager shrugged. “He’s not the most reliable employee but he does at least call, usually.”
“We need an address,” Vincent said.
“That’s not going to hap—,” Shanks began.
“It is going to happen,” Stanley interrupted. “One of your employees drugged my client. We’ve seen proof of it. Get me the damn address.”
More grumbling ensued but the manager went to pull the file. Vincent’s phone buzzed and he retrieved it. Seeing Ophelia’s picture on the screen he felt his gut clench. He didn’t have the answers he wanted for her.
“I have to take this,” he said to Stanley.
Stanley nodded. “I’ll meet you outside.”
Vincent walked out into the warm evening air as he swiped his thumb over the screen to accept the call. “Where are you?”
She was there. He could hear the quick in drawn breath, but it was several seconds before she spoke. “I came back to St. Brennan with Justin and Rosalee. Where are you?”
Vincent realized he didn’t want to say it. He didn’t want to tell her that he was in the very same place where their problems had begun. But lying wasn’t an option. He had to tell her everything now or she’d never forgive him. Hell, he’d never forgive himself. “I’m in Lexington with Stanley. We’re trying to get to the bottom of this.”
“I’m coming to you,” Ophelia said after a long pause. “Isabella will stay here for a few days while we try to figure this out… she doesn’t need to be around us right now anyway, not when half the time I want to cry and the other half I want to throw things at your head.”
“I’d rather you throw things,” he admitted gruffly. “I don’t ever want to make you cry.”
She let out a short hiccupping sob. “It’s a little late for that.”
“Ophelia… I promise, I would never do this to you. I can’t help but feel that somehow, Melina is behind all of this.”
“I’m not sure I believe that… but I’m also not sure that I don’t. The evidence was pretty convincing, but Melina is nothing if not thorough.”
“I’ll send the plane for you… It can be there in about three hours.”
“I’ll be ready.” She took another deep breath. “Please don’t make me regret this, Vincent.”
“I won’t. I promise you, I won’t.” He prayed he could keep that promise, but until he found out what had happened during those missing hours, it was a promise made on nothing but faith.
The call ended without a goodbye. He made the necessary arrangements to have the company jet pick up Ophelia and returned his phone to his pocket as Stanley and Anderson exited the hotel.
“Do you have everything?” he asked.
Stanley nodded. “Yes. I’ve got the information. You look a little shaky.”
“That was Ophelia. She should be here in about six hours… I need to have something concrete to tell her when she gets here, Stanley. I need an answer,” he paused. “I need to know what happened that night. I don’t like not knowing.”
“Then let’s go find this bastard,” Stanley replied, slapping the folded piece of paper against his palm. “And let’s tie this shit back to Melina Tate and finally burn her ass… I’m tired of dealing with her petty shit.”
“Who is Melina Tate and what did you do to piss her off?” Anderson asked as he climbed into the back of the limo.
“It’s a long story… let’s just say she blames me for her change of fortune,” Vincent replied vaguely. He didn’t want to revisit the mess with Claude, Thomas’ will and the nightmare of embezzlement that Claude and Melina had cooked up together. It had taken a long time to get DuChamps Hotels back on track. Now, just as the business was back on a solid footing, his personal life was falling to pieces.
“Usually, when women are doing shit like this… it’s got to do with more than money,” Anderson pointed out. “Jilted lover?”
“No,” Vincent replied firmly. “Melina and I were never together… She wanted to be but only because she wanted the money and position. It’s all social standing with her. She’s cold to the core.”
Anderson nodded as the car rolled along New Circle Road toward the low end apartment complex where the bartender lived. “Well, I’ll give her props. She’s inventive as hell. And she clearly knows how to carry out a plan.”
“She had to have someone helping her,” Stanley guessed. “I mean, Lexington isn’t her normal stomping ground. And I highly doubt she advertised on Craigslist.”
Vincent picked up his phone and called his sister. She answered on the second ring. “What was the name of the woman that Grant used to be engaged to?”
“Seriously?” Kaitlyn demanded. “No hi or how are you… let’s just jump right into talking about a bitch I hate?”
Under normal circumstances, it would have amused him to goad her a little more. Kaitlyn was always high strung and she could dish out sarcasm better than anyone, a trait he admired, but at the moment, he just wasn’t up to it. “It’s important, Kaitie. Melina’s been scheming again and I think she might have had help.”
“Tessa Badcock… no. Babcock. The first one is just what I call her.”
Vincent pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course, it is.”
“What’s bitch done now?”
“She sent Ophelia a picture of me in bed with another woman,” he replied.
Kaitlyn got quiet. Really quiet. “Well, I’m sure Ophelia knows that can be Photoshopped.”
“It wasn’t,” Vincent replied. “The photo is real… the woman is real. But I don’t remember any of it.”
Kaitlyn sighed. “She didn’t get help from Tessa. She got help, or at the very least inspiration, from Alex Beeson. Tell Stanley I said it’s okay to tell you everything.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Vincent demanded.
“Just do it,” Kaitlyn hissed. “I’m not having this conversation with you ever… but Stanley knows all the gory details. The MO is similar.”
Vincent didn’t ask her more. The phone clicked and he knew then that the conversation was over. “Stanley, who the hell is Alex Beeson and what kind of help would he have given Melina?”
Stanley cursed. “
Let’s just say that asshole would be more than familiar with what kind of drug to use and where to obtain it from.”
“How does Kaitlyn know about this? She said for you to tell me everything, what does that mean?”
Stanley held up his hands. “I don’t care what she said to you on the phone… that’s her story to tell. But we’ll track Beeson down, figure out if he’s in the area or if he’s been in contact with Melina.”
“If it is rohypnol,” Anderson offered, “And based on the memory loss, that’s where I’d put my money, it can be detected in the blood stream for up to sixty hours. Maybe we need to get a blood test for you to see if we can’t figure out what they drugged you with.”
Vincent nodded. “Can you make that happen discreetly?”
Anderson shrugged. “As long as you’ve got cash, anything can be handled discreetly.”
‡
Chapter Six
Martin Shanks left the hotel, but didn’t even look at his phone until he reached his car. Once he was safely behind the wheel, he dug out his phone and placed the call. “You need to get the hell out of dodge!” he shouted when Danny, his girlfriend’s nephew, and bartender with a shitty work history, answered.
“What are you talking about?” he demanded, groggy and disoriented.
High, Martin decided. “You and your girlfriend have been caught,” he explained slowly. “That rich dude that you all set up for the big pay day? He’s here. With a lawyer and a PI, and the hotel manager folded like a house of cards.”
“Fuck!” Danny shouted. “I gotta go.”
Martin sighed. Now, he thought, now the kid develops a sense of urgency. “Yes, Danny. You gotta go. And Jennifer. Even though you all drugged him, she’s still pretty unforgettable.” How the hell Danny, with his drug problem and his less than stellar wit, bagged a babe like Jennifer remained a mystery.
“How did you know we did it?” Danny asked, his drug fueled paranoia beginning to kick in.
“Because we reviewed the security footage and saw you drug his whiskey, you fucking moron!” Martin shouted. “I’m not going down for this. I got you the job bartending there, but that’s it. I never signed up to have you supplementing your income by drugging influential guests. So you and your hottie girlfriend need to make yourself scarce. Get the fuck out of town before these people track you down.”
Danny was cursing, and in the background, just before the call ended, Martin heard the knock at the door. They were all fucked.
*
Will Anderson waited by the sliding glass door at the back of the shabby townhouse while Stanley pounded on the front door. They were all in agreement that the douchebag bartender would make a run for it. He’d called in a favor from a cop that owed him and gotten the make and model of the asshat’s car and DuChamps was staking it out in case the little shit got by them.
He could hear thrashing from inside, the sound of things breaking as Danny Barnes tried to flee. When the sliding door flew open, he didn’t think twice about it. Just held out his arm and let the idiot clothesline himself.
Barnes fell to the ground, gasping and writhing. Anderson grabbed him by the collar, hauled him up and back into the apartment. Still dragging the kid around, he unlocked the door and let Stanley in and waved Vincent in from the parking area.
Taking a chair from the kitchen he forced the bartender to sit and then cuffed his hands behind his back.
“You can’t do this!” Danny shouted. “I know my rights.”
“I am not a cop,” Anderson said. “You don’t have any rights. But apparently you do have access to any and every illegal substance a person would need to get hold of. Who paid you to come up with some rohypnol?”
“I didn’t. She brought it to us,” he protested.
“Who?” Vincent demanded. The kid was cracking like an egg.
“The blonde!”
Stanley pulled out his phone and flashed a picture of Melina Tate. “Is this the woman who gave you the drugs?”
“She didn’t give them to me… she gave them to Jennifer, my girlfriend.”
“And Jennifer is the curvy brunette in this picture?” Stanley asked, showing the one of her in bed with Vincent. “I take it you were the photographer?”
Danny started to cry. Sobbing and bawling like a toddler. Every man in the room shook his head in disgust.
“Jesus!” Anderson muttered. “Pull your shit together, man!”
“Where is Jennifer?” Vincent asked. It was clear from Danny’s present state that she had to be the brains of the pair.
“She’s gone… but she’s supposed to work tonight,” Danny offered, not even pretending to be concerned for her safety. He would literally throw her to the wolves in a heartbeat to save his own ass, that was glaringly apparent.
“You were supposed to work last night!” Anderson protested. “I’m supposed to believe she’s got a better work ethic than you?
“Where does she work?” Vincent asked. He wanted to be away from Danny Barnes, the kid was pathetic.
“Lola’s. It’s a strip club on Winchester Road,” he moaned sadly.
Anderson shook his head. “You can say goodbye to your hot girlfriend, asshole. As fast as you sold her out, she’ll never let you look at it again, much less hit it.”
“You warn her, you call her and tell her we’re coming,” Stanley threatened, “And I’ll have you in jail before daylight… Strung out and pill sick. You understand?”
Barnes nodded. “I won’t call her. I swear.”
Anderson dug in the kid’s pocket and retrieved his cell phone. “I’ll be taking this with me. Just for safe keeping.”
‡
Chapter Seven
The plane landed at just after ten and Ophelia disembarked. It wasn’t something she’d ever get used to, she thought. Private planes. Limousines. She’d been part of the DuChamps’ world for all of her life, certainly for as long as she could remember. Their wealth and prestige was something they wore with ease. But as someone who had once been employed by the family and now found herself married into it, she was still taken aback by the luxury of it all at times.
As she disembarked, she could see Vincent standing by the limo. He looked more tired than he had the night before, if that were even possible. She didn’t want to feel sorry for him. She needed, she thought, to harden her heart a little bit, just in case. But that was easier said than done.
She walked toward the car even as he stepped forward to take her bag. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“I’m fine. But you look like hell,” she replied.
He didn’t say anything, not even a smile. Passing the bags off to the driver, he opened the limo door for her and ushered her inside. The dark leather seats and tinted windows gave the impression that they were in their own little world—private, intimate, safe.
After Vincent joined her, he pressed the button to raise the partition. They were as private as they were going to get at that moment. He then handed her a small slip of paper.
“What is this?” she demanded.
“A drug test. Apparently Ambien is the new roofie,” he said.
Ophelia frowned. “I don’t understand how this happened.”
“We don’t have all the details yet… But apparently Melina bribed the bartender at the hotel, and his girlfriend, to set me up. We’ve talked to the bartender and he sang like a bird, but painted himself as far more innocent that he probably is.”
The tension that she’d been battling all day ratcheted to a new level. Everything felt tight. Her face was hot, it was hard to breathe and she felt vaguely nauseous. “And I’m to assume that the girlfriend was the woman in the photo with you?”
Vincent scrubbed his hands over his face. “I don’t remember her. I don’t even remember seeing her… Apparently Ambien can cause severe amnesia, especially when mixed with alcohol. What I do remember was coming back to the hotel, going to the bar the same way I had every day and ordering a whiskey… After that, nothing. No
t till the next morning.”
She believed him. Vincent hated to be out of control. He would never admit to being so helpless, not to anyone and not for any reason, unless he was truly desperate. “And the next morning?” she asked, hating the tremor in her voice.
“I woke up next to her… no clue of who she was or how she got there. But I was sick. Puking like a teenager who’d found the key to the liquor cabinet. By the time I came back from the bathroom, she was gone,” he finished.
The next question was harder and she was afraid of the answer. “Why wouldn’t you tell me this? Why did you lie to me?”
“Because I didn’t know what to tell you. I already had Stanley looking into everything… I foolishly thought I’d have more time to piece it all together before I had to tell you,” he admitted.
Ophelia’s hands trembled as she smoothed the papers he’d given her. It was a nervous habit. “Have there been other times when you’ve kept things from me that I ought to know?”
They both knew what she was asking. As politely as the question was phrased, it amounted to one thing. Were there other women. Vincent shook his head. “No. Ophelia, there’s no one else I want… and no matter how this looks, I’d never willingly hurt you.”
Ophelia was reading between the lines, listening for the things he wasn’t saying. “You still don’t know if you slept with her,” she surmised.
“I can’t say with absolute certainty that the answer is no. I want that to be the case,” he answered honestly. “I don’t think I did, but I don’t know. Hell, I’d be surprised if I was capable given the circumstances. What I can tell you is that other than her presence in my bed, there was nothing to indicate that it happened.”
“What does that mean exactly?” she demanded.
Vincent scrubbed his hands over his face again. “Sex is messy, Ophelia… we both know that. If anything had happened between us, there would have been signs—some indication that we’d done more than just lay there.”
“I want to hear that from her… Not because I think you’re lying. I don’t,” she said. “But because you honestly just don’t know, and I have to… we have to know.”
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