by Adams,Claire
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Echo
The next morning I woke up disappointed to find the other side of the bed empty. I'd slept soundly all night after helping Ryan fall asleep, but I felt tight and tense after sitting on the couch for several hours waiting for him to fall into a deep sleep. I'd hoped to wake up next to him, but realized I should have known better. Ryan wasn't the kind of guy who would show up in a girl's bed uninvited.
"Ryan?" I called hoping that he was somewhere downstairs and would come bounding up the stairs ready to join me. There was no answer, though. "Ryan? Are you down there?"
When I got no reply, I pulled on my robe over my nightgown and headed down to see what was going on. I saw my laptop open on the counter and a slip of paper lying next to it. I picked it up and read:
Echo,
Sorry I couldn't stay. I need to take care of a few things. Be back in a few days. Don't worry.
Ryan
I slammed my hand down on the counter and swore under my breath before I ran to my purse and pulled out my phone. I quickly typed out a text and hit send. He'd have to respond to me at some point.
I sent a second text to Cece asking her to come over, if she could, before I headed into the bathroom to shower and get dressed. Fifteen minutes later there was a knock at the door, and when I opened it, Cece was standing there holding a carrier with two coffees and a bag of pastries from the bodega down the block.
"You rang, chica?" she grinned as she stepped through the door and set the food down. She gave me a hug and then grabbed a coffee and the bag of pastries as she made her way to the couch. "So, what's up?"
"Thank you for the coffee," I said with a grateful smile as I grabbed mine and joined her.
"No hay problema, chica," she smiled as she pulled a cheese danish from the bag and took a huge bite. "And again, I ask, what's up?"
"I don't know what the hell is going on," I said as I took a sip of coffee, then proceeded to tell her about the funeral and what happened afterwards. "And when I woke up this morning he was gone. I have no idea where he went or what he's doing."
"The boy doesn't want to be found," she said as she chewed thoughtfully then said with a mischievous grin, "But that doesn't mean we can't find him."
"I know we can find him, Cece," I said shaking my head. "But does that mean we should? I'm worried about him. He's lost his friend, his father and now the money and his father's company. And I'm getting cryptic emails from his dead father giving me information about the project he was working on, but no insight into why he was doing what he was doing or what I should be doing with the information."
"That is bizarre," she said as she brushed the crumbs off of her blood red tank top. Her nail polish matched the top perfectly as did her lipstick. I felt mousy and plain next to her bold look. "But lay out the details, chica. Your boss dies, his son comes home, and you start getting classified information that you are not supposed to share with the man who fired you just before you get fired. How does this all fit together?"
"Well, now that you put it that way," I laughed. "It seems kind of obvious that Dr. Powell was doing something that he didn't want Mr. Baines to know about, but Mr. Baines must already know something about it and thinks I do, too, or else he wouldn't have fired me, right?"
"Ooooh, you're a regular Sherlock Homes," she said taking a second pastry and biting into it. "I love that guy, by the way."
"My evil ex-boss?" I asked.
"No, Sherlock Homes," she laughed harder. "Stay with me, chica."
"Cece, you're crazy," I laughed with her. "But what does this all mean? Now Ryan's gone AWOL and I need to figure out what to do with the emails."
"Maybe it's part of a larger puzzle," she suggested as she licked her fingers. "What else could be going on? Think about it, chica!"
"I don't know, maybe Julian Baines had Dr. Powell murdered so he could get his hands on the research?" I said feeling completely foolish for even thinking such a ridiculous thing. When on earth had someone murdered? That was a plot device for television shows, not real life.
"Could he have done it?" Cece asked.
"Cece, that's just plain stupid," I said. "Why would Julian Baines want to kill his best friend the man who also happens to be his business partner?"
"You're asking me?" she said. "I can think of a hundred different reasons for why people want to kill one another; old grudges, money, sex, power...want me to keep going?"
"But what could Dr. Powell have that Baines would want enough to kill him for it?" I asked.
"Not a clue," Cece said as she peeked into the bag and asked, "You want this last one?"
"No, it's all you," I said turning the problem over in my brain. I had no idea what Baines's grudge could be, but all of a sudden I thought of someone who might know. I turned to Cece and asked, "Want to run an errand with me?"
"Sure, why not?" she smiled. "I'm fed and caffeinated, so I'll be great company for a few hours!"
I laughed as I gathered my things. I hesitated before loading the laptop into a bag and throwing it over my shoulder. I wasn't sure how this would turn out, but if I had a chance to install the program I'd spent the past several days coding, I didn't want to miss the opportunity.
"Alright, Cece, let's ride," I said as I pulled open the door and crossed my fingers hoping that what we were about to do wouldn't get anyone in trouble.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Ryan
I left Echo's apartment in the early hours of the morning kicking myself for thinking my dream could ever become a reality. She was Mando's girlfriend and she'd been kind to me. My mind replayed my dream and the way her body had curved under my hands as I'd stroked and caressed her leaving me with the same ache I'd had last night. In my dream, she'd wanted more, and so had I, but there was something about crossing that line that felt like a total betrayal, and I just couldn't do it.
"You idiot!" I muttered as I rubbed the stubble I hadn't had time to shave off before leaving the apartment. My conscience wrestled with the erection in my pants, and, this time, my overactive conscience had won. I couldn't guarantee that it would win again, though, so I'd packed up and left Echo a note telling her I'd be gone for a few days. I needed to remove the temptation and get some answers to questions about my father.
It had been a week since I'd had a good workout, so I ran the distance between Echo's apartment and Eva's mother's townhouse in Murray Hill. By the time I rang the doorbell, I was sweating like crazy and fairly sure that Eva would find this offensive, but I was past caring. Now I wanted answers.
The maid that answered the door looked me up and down and asked me to wait on the doorstep until she called Miss Eva down. I nodded and leaned against the railing as I caught my breath. Eva appeared a few minutes later.
"Oh my, goodness, you are rather sweaty, aren't you?" she said as she handed me a towel and backed away. "Dry off before you come in or you'll sweat on the carpet and Mummy will have a fit."
"Thanks," I said taking the towel and wiping away as much moisture as I could. I'd never understood Eva's relationship with her mother or why she and her siblings all called her "Mummy" when they had been born and raised here in Manhattan.
"How are you doing?" Eva asked as she led me up a flight of stairs to a room that was situated away from the main area of the townhouse.
"I'm okay," I said eyeing her. She was wearing a black tank top and a long black skit both of which clung to her like a second skin. Her hair had been dyed an unnatural shade of black and I wanted to ask her if she wasn't taking the widow in mourning thing a little to far.
"Do you need anything?" she asked.
"You mean besides a place to live?" I replied drily.
"Don't get mad at me about the apartment," she retorted. "I had no idea what was going on with the finances. Do you need some money? I have a little cash."
She walked over to a small writing desk in the far corner of the room, opened a drawer and rummaged around for a few seconds before extracti
ng an envelope. She crossed the room and handed it to me.
"That's all I've got right now, but I can get more if you need it," she said as I examined the contents and found five crisp hundred dollar bills inside.
"Thanks, I appreciate that, but I'm fine, really," I said as I pocketed the money. I didn't want to take money from her, but I knew that Echo could use the cash now that she was out of a job. "How are you doing?"
"Oh Ryan," she said as tears welled up in her eyes. I wanted to feel sorry for her, but I could tell that this was a performance she'd been giving for audiences that expected her to play the part.
"Eva, knock it off with the crocodile tears," I said. "I know you're sad, I know you're devastated, I know you're a widow. What I really want to know is what happened to my father. Why is he dead?"
"How the hell would I know?" she hissed as she quickly shifted from grieving widow to possibly accused. "I didn't have any control over what that man ate or drank or who he screwed, and I warned him about all of it."
"What the hell are you talking about?" I demanded. "My father never played around!"
"Oh God, you are so naive," she laughed without humor. "Darling, your father and I had a marriage of great convenience. I loved him, and I'm fairly certain that he loved me, but he was not crazy mad in love, and I realized it too late to be able to change things. Your father loved only two things, your dear departed saintly mother and his goddamn research."
"Be very careful where you tread," I warned her.
"Oh please, I've been treading carefully for years," she said as she stood up and walked to the bar. She poured herself a generous shot of whiskey from the crystal decanter on the bar, and then offered me a drink. I shook my head and she shrugged as she replaced the stopper and picked up her tumbler. "Ryan, it's hard to find out that our parents are not the saintly people we've been led to believe they are, but sometimes that all comes crashing down at the most inopportune time."
"What the hell are you babbling on about, Eva?" I said through gritted teeth.
"Look, as I said, I loved your father and, I think in his own twisted way, he loved me," she said as she sipped her drink. "But he married me because he needed money while I married him because I was in love. We lived together, attended functions together, and generally supported one another, but he did not allow us to live as husband and wife."
"Okay, so what the hell was going on, then?" I demanded. "My father wasn't like that! He said he'd married you because he loved you and because you were someone who brought light into his life after a long time of darkness. Now you're telling me that it was all a sham?"
"Well, not quite a sham," she smiled. "We consummated the marriage for legal reasons, but after that he never shared my bed again. Look, I loved your father, I did, but he loved nothing but his research."
"So, what the hell is going on with his will and the corner's report?" I asked. The last thing I wanted to hear was a detailed run down of my father's non-existent sex life with his much younger wife.
"You don't want to know about how your father got his needs met outside of the marital bed?" she asked as she peered over the edge of her glass.
"No, I most certainly don't," I said feeling the anger beginning to rise and not wanting to let her know she was getting to me.
"You don't want to know about all the hookers your father hired or the clubs he frequented?" she asked quietly.
"Why are you doing this to me?" I asked. "Better yet, why are you doing this to my father?"
"I put up with his obsession for ten years," she said bitterly as she set her glass down and studied her bright red nails. "I put up with being ignored and shoved to the side as he searched for the answers to some question that he wouldn't even share with me!"
"There was no way my father hired hookers," I said knowing that she was throwing out everything she could just to hurt me.
"I have no idea what he did for sex," she sighed. "But I can't imagine that a man as handsome and virile as your father decided to forgo sex as he worked on his research project. He had to have had an outlet."
"What makes you think that? And why does it matter?"
"It matters because my husband didn't want me!" she screamed as she stood up towering over me. "Look at me! I'm a beautiful woman, and the man I loved didn't want me!"
"Calm down, Eva," I said holding up a hand as I quickly searched for a way to mollify her. "I'm sure my father had his reasons for what he did, and most likely they didn't have anything to do with not being attracted to you."
"He was attracted to that lab of his," she said as she sat back down, smoothed her skirt and picked up her drink. "He spent the majority of his time at work on that stupid project of his. Maybe he was fooling around with that cute little secretary."
I felt my pulse begin to race as I thought about how wrong Eva was about that one, but I knew better than to play my hand simply to prove that my father was innocent.
"Eva, what was my father working on?" I asked turning the conversation toward something that might give me information.
"I have no idea," she said as she took a gulp of her whiskey and got up to refill her glass. "Julian said it was something about technology that could be used on battlefields to help prevent people from dying."
"Wait, Julian told you this?" I asked. For a brief second, Eva looked worried and then she quickly pulled back on the cool socialite mask and smiled.
"Yes, he told me about it at the company dinner he hosted a few weeks ago," she said taking a sip from her glass. "Alan brought me along to entertain the other wives, but he needn't have since he and Julian were so good at performing for a crowd."
"Why did Julian host a dinner for the company?" I asked. There was something about this that sounded all wrong.
"Oh, he does that on occasion, as a reward for hard work or something," she said sitting down again. "I think this was because of some deal that he'd made with a company who'd be funding your father's research projects."
"And who is that?" I asked.
"I have no idea. I don't really have a head for business, so I tend to tune out the unimportant details," she said looking out the window and avoiding my eyes. I knew something was wrong. Eva did indeed have a head for details, but she didn't want to share these with me.
"So, how are we going to get the corner's report?" I asked changing the subject entirely.
"What? Oh, that?" she stammered and then recovered. "I've got a call in to a friend of mine and hopefully we'll have the report by Monday or Tuesday."
"I see," I said. Then I leaned forward in my chair and quietly said, "Eva, if you know something, you'd better tell me now."
"What on earth could I possibly know?" she laughed nervously. "I know nothing."
"You know something, and we both know that," I said standing up. "The question is whether you are willing to go to prison for what you know."
"What the hell are you talking about?" she shouted. I knew I was bluffing, but there was part of me that wondered how much it would take to get her to crack. I stared at her as she blustered looking for the words to express her outrage at being accused of something illegal.
"You know exactly what I'm talking about," I said cooly as I walked toward the door. "I think you know what happened to my father, and when I find out what it is you know, I'm going to make sure you pay the price for having kept the information from me."
"Ryan, I don't know what you take me for, but I truly am grieving the loss of my husband," she said in a sad tired voice. "I miss him terribly and I'm not sure how I'm going to make it without him."
"Ah, I see," I said looking across the room feeling sorry for her but also frustrated that she wasn't going to give me the information I needed. It briefly crossed my mind that she might not, in fact, know anything, and yet when I looked at her perfectly painted face I felt certain that she was hiding something. I nodded, "Okay, so that's how it's going to go? Fine. Be the grieving widow for as long as you can because once I figure out what the he
ll is going on around here, we'll settle this once and for all."
"Don't be so quick to judge me," Eva said as a sad smile spread across her lips. "You have no idea what kind of life I've lived." As she stared into my eyes, and I could see that she was hiding something, but since I had no idea what that was, and she wasn't going to give anything away, I had to let it go.
"I'll see myself out," I said as I opened the sitting room door and then quietly closed it behind me.
#
I left Eva's and walked uptown to the Manhattan Club. My father had maintained a membership at the club for over twenty years and I wanted to know if he'd been in good standing at the time of his death. I wasn't sure if the club's manager would talk to me, but I wagered that he might talk with a bereaved son, and if I had to, I'd play the military service card, too.
"May I help you?" the concierge at the front desk asked as I entered the lobby. I hadn't been inside the club for more than a decade, but I recognized that nothing had changed. The thick burgundy carpeting still muffled my footsteps, the dark walnut furniture still looked like it would swallow up anyone who sat on it, and the thick scent of expensive cigars and whiskey permeated the air. This was a man's club and it made no secret of that fact.
"I'm Dr. Alan Powell's son," I said as I held out my hand. Recognition flashed across the man's face as he offered his hand.
"I'm so sorry for your loss, Lieutenant Powell," the concierge replied with a mournful look as he shook my hand. "Your father was very well respected at the club and we will definitely miss him."
"Thank you, I appreciate that," I said as I gave him an appropriately sad smile. "I was wondering if your manager was in, and if so, could I have a few minutes with him to clear up my father's account."
"Of course, sir," the man said as he reached for the phone and dialed an extension. He spoke to someone on the other end and then hung up. "If you'll have a seat, Mr. Blake will be out shortly."
I sat down off to one side of the room and watched the procession of club members moving through the lobby. There were those who were obviously guests of members. They were the ones who took in their surroundings as if they were committing it all to memory; unsure whether they'd ever be invited in again. There were men in suits carrying briefcases who walked briskly toward the bar without looking around. They were here to serve the men who had real power. And then there were the men who radiated confidence and belonging. They weren't ostentatious, they were just certain of their place. They walked past the concierge without even acknowledging him and headed off to wherever they belonged at that moment. I remembered my father always greeting the staff with a friendly wave or a nod of his head. Sometimes he'd stop and talk to people asking how their families were doing, and I remembered the disapproving looks he'd get from the regular members. It wasn't until I was a teenager, that I'd understood what was going on, and then I'd bristled as I watched my father talk with strangers in a way that he'd never talked with me.
