by Celia Mulder
Lucille, watching these events while Reina flirted with the hapless waiter, wanted to throw something at him. Something heavy so it’d hurt a lot. Because goddammit, he had a cute butt.
Chapter Six
Brett didn’t know what had possessed him to show up at the restaurant. After his stuff had been forcibly moved to Michel’s house, he’d once more declined the ride offer, saying he’d sleep off his hangover and wander over later. He’d needed to clear his head, which had throbbed from extended mental and physical abuse. He’d lain on his bed between his beloved chemistry texts, but his brain had refused to sleep. Perhaps he’d drank too much. That didn’t seem likely. Perhaps he’d gotten a concussion when he’d face-planted.
He’d considered calling Michel and demanding a ride to the hospital, but he’d had no idea where his phone was.
An unproductive few hours later, Brett had dragged himself out of his crackling sheets and set off on the long pilgrimage to Michel’s mansion. He’d decided to walk as far as he could, determined to refresh himself with some smog-filled air. An hour of that nonsense had convinced him he needed to find Lucille Anton and demand answers from her. It had been a coincidence when, a few blocks later, he’d caught sight of her through the window of Miachelli’s. He’d been foolish enough at the time to believe it was luck.
He had intended to play nice. That was what he told himself. Then the dumb people with their obnoxiously spaced chairs and Lucille’s general stuckupishness...well, he might have overreacted a little. But she’d insulted his film, his beloved, terrible film, and things had gotten out of hand. It was her fault, her snobbish refusal to tell him the truth. Still, the whole encounter had left him feeling shitty.
Things were getting complicated, and the only way Brett knew to make sense of them was to write it all down. He grabbed a taxi and pulled his battered, tiny notebook out of his jacket pocket. In it he wrote:
Michel: Acting strange. Victim of attempted murder. Wants me around. Won’t go to the police because of stupid pig head.
Sylvia: Attempted murderer, apparently. Who knew? Motive? Money.
Lucille Anton: Hot ice queen (good song title). Supposed media image specialist. Actually has made-up job as undercover celebrity spin doctor.
Me: Caught up in all this. Very sober.
It was starting to sound like a Shakespearean comedy. All they needed was a jester.
Brett amended his entry.
Me: Caught up in all this. Very sober. Fucking jester.
Perhaps he should start composing bawdy songs to perform at the king’s feast. King Michel. The first would be “Hot Ice Queen.”
The taxi pulled up outside Michel’s mansion not a moment too soon. The house was a Spanish-style villa with a red shingled roof and beige concrete walls. Its grounds took up a city block, with an acre just for the circular tree-lined drive alone. The house danced the line between elegant and ostentatious, the latter often winning. There were rumors that Michel had bought the mansion from the don of a Spanish mafia clan and that there were bodies buried on the grounds. Michel had neither confirmed nor denied the rumor, so it was probably true.
Brett sighed at it. It gave him the creeps. He’d always hated staying there, preferring his noisy mess to the silent mausoleum.
As the taxi pulled away, the front door slammed open. Michel stood in the doorway, his hair crazed, his brown eyes wild, wearing the same suit as the night before. He didn’t say a word, just stared at Brett like he was seeing a ghost. Brett had never seen him look so terrible.
“Jesus Christ, man, are you all right?”
Michel still didn’t say anything, but he turned and stumbled into the house, Brett trailing behind him.
The pristine house was silent, eerily so. They walked through the cobblestone foyer where not so much as a speck of dust dared venture, their footsteps echoing against the vaulted ceilings. An enormous photograph hung on the wall beside the door, Michel with his arm around the blonde, ravishing woman whose villainous behavior had sparked this bromance reunion weekend. They both looked performance-ready and genuinely unhappy. Michel sighed at the portrait, then shifted his gaze to the second- and third-floor balconies that flanked the grand staircase, looking for something that wasn’t there.
“Uh...” Brett tried again. “Michel? Where is everyone?” Normally he would have been greeted by the butler and seen at least two maids by this point. Michel kept his house staffed like an English estate.
“I sent them home,” Michel said.
“Why?”
“I don’t know who to trust, Brett.” The same flat, emotionally dead voice.
Brett frowned as some pieces began fitting together. Michel had finally lost his mind. He’d known the pressure on his friend was enormous and that the man had been becoming more eccentric in the past few years, but now Michel had actually lost it and sent away the staff who’d been faithful to him for ages.
“Okay.” Brett trod gently. “You don’t know who to trust. Do you trust me?”
“She’s gone.” It was a whisper, a tiny, desperate whisper of a statement.
“Who’s gone?”
“Sylvia.” Michel’s breath caught and his shoulders shook as he choked out the words. “She’s gone. Someone took her. They stole into our house and took her while she slept.”
Brett blinked at his friend, not understanding. He’d never been a big fan of his cousin, particularly since this new aspect of her personality had come to light, but kidnapped? Who would want to kidnap Sylvia? Scratch that. Anyone. Everyone. Everyone would want to kidnap her, and they wouldn’t even need a good reason to do it.
He grasped Michel’s shoulders and steered him to a black leather couch in the sitting room. Michel collapsed, tears streaming down his face, his breath coming out in hiccups. Brett stood beside him, uncertain of what to say. He patted Michel on the arm, but even that felt stilted and weird, so he stopped.
Something stank of whiskey and dried sweat. No doubt the pleasant aroma was coming from his own body, the body he’d tortured over the past twenty-four hours. He wasn’t fit to help anyone until he took a shower and figured out which room his clothes were in.
***
Whether Reina didn’t notice the buzz around them or didn’t care, Lucille wasn’t certain. The model ranted as if nothing was happening while her highly paid publicist itched to reach for the phone chattering away in her purse. Lucille nodded along, reaching down as discreetly as possible to grab it. Stealing a glance, she saw it was littered with alerts from all the major news sites. Whatever was happening was big.
From the table beside theirs a woman said, “Did you read this? Sylvia Stanton’s been kidnapped. She was taken from her home last night, it says.”
“Who’s Sylvia Stanton?” the man with her asked.
“You know, she’s that rich business guy’s daughter. The one who’s engaged to Michel Polce.”
Lucille froze, her attention disconnecting from Reina and tuning into the conversations around her.
“—missing since yesterday.”
“—bet he did it.”
“—she’s loaded.”
“—where was he? ‘No comment’—what bullshit is that?”
“—I don’t know what to do. Yes, he is in Sweden, but he knows how to find me.” The last was from Reina, her eyes filling with the glistening tears of a beautiful crier.
“Reina,” Lucille cut her off. “I have to go. I’m sorry. Have them put it on my tab.” It would take her another hour to reach Michel’s house in this traffic.
“Lucille! You can’t just—”
She’d never run out on a client before. Scratch that. She’d frequently abandoned one client in favor of a more important one. If Sylvia Stanton had been kidnapped, there was precious little time before the media shit storm broke and Michel’s name was caught in it. Kidnapping or not, Michel’s reputation was being called into question, and that was her primary concern.
She had, however, never run out o
n Reina before. If Reina had been on time, she told herself, we’d have had a chance to finish our entrees. For once, she didn’t care if she lost her client over this, and now was not the time to examine that unexpected reaction.
***
As Brett pulled a clean t-shirt over his head, the front doorbell rang. He ran his fingers through his wet hair—he hadn’t thought to pack a brush. The bell rang again. Right. The butler was gone. The maids were gone. Who the hell knew where Michel’s driver was. Michel was useless. Sylvia was supposedly kidnapped. He was the only semi-sane person in the place, so it looked like it was up to him to answer the door.
When he did, he found Lucille Anton standing on the other side of it, looking as beautiful and surly as she had at the restaurant.
“What the fuck is going on?”
“Hello to you, too,” he said back, miffed. He’d only just started recovering from their last encounter; he wasn’t ready for round two.
Lucille had her arms crossed over her black blouse, forcing open the unbuttoned top and revealing a glimpse of black lace. She looked him up and down while he stared at her face. He could feel her eyes on his skin, scraping across every inch of his being with slow, deliberate judgment. As in the hotel suite, he felt gloriously naked. He was sure it was meant to make him feel insignificant and tiny, but whether it was from his years of neuroses and self-deprecation or some latent desire in her gaze, he shivered with pleasure at the scrutiny.
“I see you own other clothes.” Her tone was clipped and cold.
“Are you checking me out?” Brett had meant to joke, but it came out husky.
Lucille laughed, one brief, humorless bark that said “you wish.” She pushed past him and into the tomb of the mansion beyond. She paused in the foyer, taking in the empty stillness.
“I don’t know how to say this, but—” Brett began.
“Sylvia’s been kidnapped.” Lucille cut him off. “And what I’d really like to know is why the hell you didn’t call me about it. You’ve clearly been here long enough to make yourself at home.”
Brett frowned. “What does Sylvia’s kidnapping have to do with you? Aren’t you Michel’s publicist?”
Lucille turned on her scary, pointy-heeled boots and glared at him, her arched eyebrows knit together. “Don’t be stupid.”
“Then you’re not his publicist.” Brett already knew this, of course, but he was annoyed and sick of her, and wildly attracted to her and now a bit pissed off.
“No. I’m not. We both know I’m not, so we can drop the charade. I need to see Michel.” She turned and walked away, her heels ringing against the stone.
Brett growled after her. What was he, a wild animal? Now he was back to thinking about them having sex. Wild, passionate animal sex. He growled again.
The doorbell rang. “What the everlasting fuck?” he said as he wrenched it open.
On the terracotta doorstep stood three people Brett had been hoping they wouldn’t have to deal with yet. The man in the middle was tall, a whole head taller than Brett. He wore a navy-blue suit, sunglasses, and the deep lines of a man with a stressful job. The two tall men flanking him, one ginger, one blond, were uniformed policemen. Which meant the middle man was...
“Detective Adams, LAPD,” he said, confirming Brett’s guess.
“Detective,” Brett got out, voice croaking. He cleared his throat. “What can I do for you?”
“We need to speak to Mr. Polce,” Detective Adams said, looking past Brett and into the house.
Brett hesitated. He knew Michel didn’t want the police involved, but that was before Sylvia had been kidnapped and Michel himself had become weepy and catatonic. “He’s in the living room.” He motioned for the men to follow him.
The detective walked with slow deliberation, seeming to take in the deserted space around him. He nodded to the other cops and they followed him silently, their gazes roving over every detail of the room, no doubt looking for fingerprints or DNA samples. If Detective Adams pulled out a notebook and jotted down clues, Brett wouldn’t be surprised.
“Hey guys, so, we’ve got company,” he called as they strolled into the living room.
Lucille had pulled up a chair next to Michel’s couch and had helped him into a sitting position. Michel was leaned forward, his head in his hands, and he didn’t glance up when they entered. Lucille, on the other hand, looked up and caught sight of the detective. An expression flickered across her face and was gone before Brett could guess what it meant.
Brett frowned and glanced back at the detective. Detective Adams had stopped and was busy grinding his teeth and turning red.
“Lucy,” he said, his voice gruff and masculine.
“Matt,” Lucille replied, her face blank.
Brett felt lighter and grinned. This whole day was looking up. He leaned on the arm of the sofa. He was going to enjoy this. “So I take it you two know each other,” he said, coaxing their claws out.
“We used to.” Lucille still didn’t look away from the detective.
The detective let out a short, cold bark of a laugh.
“What are you doing here, Matt?” Lucille’s voice could have frozen a lake in July.
Detective Adams’s mouth became a thin line, but he responded. “That’s classified.”
Lucille sighed. “Just make it easier on everyone and tell me. I’ll find out anyway.” She had her arms folded across her chest again, which made Brett sit up straighter.
“I need to question Mr. Polce about the whereabouts of his fiancée.”
“He doesn’t know where she is.”
“Like I’d take your word for it, Lucy.”
Matt the detective addressed Michel. “Mr. Polce, if you wouldn’t mind stepping into another room for a moment, I have some questions for you.”
Michel groaned, proving existence of life.
“Mr. Polce, this will go more smoothly if you cooperate.”
Michel raised his head but didn’t look at the detective. He met Brett’s eyes first, his own red rimmed and desperate, pleading with him. Brett didn’t know what Michel was pleading about and said so. Michel didn’t respond, save to fix Lucille with his heart-wrenching gaze. Lucille broke away to look at Brett. For the first time, he saw something in her eyes that wasn’t ice or fire. It wasn’t businesslike detachment or irate fury. He saw something almost akin to sympathy.
The whole exchange lasted a few seconds. The emotion disappeared, and they broke their gaze.
“Mr. Polce—”
Lucille interrupted, “Matt, I need to talk to you. Right now.”
Detective Adams protested, but Lucille grabbed his arm and dragged him into a side room. The door slammed behind them, and Brett was left behind, feeling like something hadn’t gone according to plan.
Chapter Seven
What are you doing? Lucille’s brain demanded as the door slammed shut. We don’t get involved with the police or kidnapping or murderers. Especially when one of them is our ex-boyfriend. Oh, just shut up.
Lucille had pulled them into a little kitchen of sorts. It was screened in, with a door leading out to the back patio. There was a huge grill along one side and a barbecue pit in the middle of the floor. A stocked bar curved out from the wall beside them. It smelled of campfire and tequila.
She crossed to the opposite side of the pit from Matt. The location didn’t matter. What mattered was the man in the navy suit. The man she hadn’t seen in eight years.
His hair, his beautiful brown hair, had streaks of gray in it. His face showed the strain of the job.
“Detective, huh?”
He scowled. “I don’t want to make small talk with you. I have work to do. Say what you’re going to say so I can get back to it.”
“Fine. This is my case. Mr. Polce is my client. Stay the fuck out of it.” She kept her manner calm and her words forceful.
Matt scowled more. “Lucy, you can’t honestly tell me you’ve involved yourself in a kidnapping case.”
“Of co
urse I haven’t. As I said, Mr. Polce is my client. He doesn’t want the police involved in his life, and I am in charge of making sure his wishes are seen to, got it?” Before Matt could react, she added, “And don’t call me Lucy.”
“Mr. Polce is the key witness in the Stanton kidnapping case. I could have you arrested for obstruction of justice.”
“Sylvia Stanton hasn’t even been gone twenty-four hours. How can you call it a kidnapping case?” Lucille shot back.
“Because her father is Lou Stanton.” He didn’t need to say more. Estranged or not, if Lou Stanton wanted his daughter back, he’d turn the whole city upside down, rules and regulations be damned. “He got an anonymous threat this morning, demanding ransom for his missing daughter and implicating Mr. Polce was the perpetrator.”
Lucille sighed. “I can tell you for a fact that Mr. Polce is innocent of the kidnapping.”
Matt didn’t react.
“He has been in the city with me and/or Mr. Jacobs since yesterday evening.”
Matt raised an eyebrow. She knew from her intimate knowledge of him that he was looking her over for any signs of perjury.
“Your word is useless, Lucy. You lie for a living,” he said.
“Not about the things that matter.” She filled her words with meaning, injecting them with the memories of their relationship—two naïve romantics, playing at forever.
Matt sighed. “I can’t stop the investigation.”
“Good, I don’t want you to. You’re right, I don’t get involved with kidnappings, and someone’s got to find that woman before Lou Stanton rips this town apart. Just don’t take Mr. Polce in for questioning.” Lucille may have sounded flippant, but her heart was pounding. If Matt didn’t believe her, if he didn’t buy her story...
“Fine. If Mr. Jacobs’s story checks out, I won’t question Mr. Polce. But if we haven’t found Miss Stanton in twenty-four hours, I’m taking him in.”
“Seventy-two. And Mr. Jacobs doesn’t get interrogated either.”
