by Celia Mulder
Once they were in the man’s spotless, windowless office, he offered them seats in the smooth, hard plastic chairs and insisted on bringing them coffee. He pulled his chair around the desk and, with another longer-suffering look, sat down before them.
No one spoke during this exchange. Brett shot a glance at his fellow recon party members. Michel looked annoyed. Lucille like she was trying not to laugh.
“Forgive my rudeness earlier. I found myself quite out of my depth. Let me assure you, please, that this...incident will be looked into most thoroughly. If I find that one or more of my staff were involved in such an atrocious act, they will be arrested at once,” the manager said, his face contrite.
“Never mind that. We think we know who did it,” Michel said with exasperation. The explosion or all the blood loss must have snapped something to attention in his brain, because he was all business.
“You do?” the man squeaked. He was sweating, his receding hairline glittering in the overhead lights.
Michel dismissed the question. “Is Sylvia Stanton staying here at the moment?”
The man sat back. “I’m sorry, sir. I cannot give out the names of our guests.”
Michel leaned forward, his face dangerous. “It is, and I mean this quite literally, and I’m certain you’ll believe me considering one bomb has already gone off today, a matter of life or death. So I think you will find you can.”
The man cowered in his chair. Michel didn’t even have to touch a hair on his head. It must have been why he got so many offers. He was alarmingly good at persuasion when he wasn’t out of his mind.
“Miss Stanton was here, but she checked out this morning,” the man squeaked.
Brett wasn’t surprised by the news. The bomb meant she or her kidnappers—the existence of whom remained questionable—knew they were going to be there. So it made perfect sense the perps hadn’t waited around to be caught. Michel, judging by his reaction, didn’t agree.
“She was here? She was here and you let her leave?”
The manager looked confused. “It is not our policy, sir, to detain guests who wish to leave. Particularly the owner’s family members.”
“But she didn’t leave! She’s been kidnapped!”
“Oh. Oh I see.” The man repeated that a few more times.
Lucille stepped in. “Was there anyone with Miss Stanton?”
The man shook his head. “No.”
“Anyone seen going in or out of her room? Anyone with her at any point in her stay?” Lucille’s voice was calm. She’d even laid a hand on Michel’s knee. To comfort him? Hold him back? Tell him she’d be there for him even if Sylvia ran off with another man or died or lost her looks?
Brett felt something. The only word he could think of was ‘icky.’ He felt icky, and it wasn’t going away.
“Well...but no. It’s only housekeeper gossip.”
“Tell us anyway,” Lucille said.
The manager looked more uncomfortable than he had before, if that were possible. He fidgeted in his chair, and his eyes circled the room, looking for an escape. “One of the housekeepers saw a couple of gentlemen going into Miss Stanton’s room last night. A few minutes later they were joined by a third gentleman.”
Michel leaned forward and asked menacingly, “And did the housekeeper see them leave?”
“We do not spy on our hotel guests.” At this point the man was going to have a heart attack before the conversation was over.
“Really?” Brett cut in. “Then what about those security cameras all over the lobby and hallways?”
He was full of shit. He hadn’t seen any security cameras, just assumed there were some. Luckily, he turned out to be right.
The man turned an even deeper red. “Yes, well, I suppose I could have the security team check those.”
“We would be forever grateful,” Lucille said with a little seductive smile.
Was she really flirting with the manager right now? With Michel, not to mention himself, right there in the same room?
“And, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, while you’re at it, would you see if the person who blew up Mr. Jacobs’s room was also caught on tape?”
The manager smiled back, nervous and twitching. “Of course.”
“Thank you so much. It’s a relief to find a man who’s committed to the safety and needs of his guests.”
The man blushed more. He was almost purple at this point, all from Lucille’s flirting. Brett wanted to hurl. He stood up.
“If there’s nothing else to do right now, I’m going to go lie down,” he announced with more fortitude than he felt. What he really wanted to do was punch someone, the hotel manager if possible. “And I will need a new room, since mine has been blown up.”
The manager blinked a few times as he was released from Lucille’s spell. He jumped to his feet. “Right away. There are a, ahem, number of rooms that opened up on your floor after the...incident. Let me find one for you.”
They followed the man back out to the lobby, got Brett’s new keys to the room on the other side of Lucille’s, and headed back up to their floor. Michel trailed behind, lost in thoughts that no one cared to ask him about.
Away from the crowd, Lucille spoke. “That was a waste, apart from confirming that Sylvia was actually was here. Let’s hope those security tapes turn up something useful.”
Brett couldn’t stop himself from saying, “You were laying it on a bit thick, don’t you think?”
She turned to him, her eyebrows raised. “It worked, didn’t it?”
“Hmph.”
She narrowed her eyes and smiled a little. “Are you jealous, Brett?”
He scowled. “No. But you can’t just...change a guy’s shirt and then go flirt with another man in front of him.”
“Can’t I?”
The elevator reached their floor. Lucille walked out first, leaving Brett to think of something, anything, to come back with. He grabbed Michel, followed her out into the hall, and stopped.
Lucille stood a few steps away from the elevator doors, frozen. Her face was stony and expressionless, her hands in fists at her sides. She had her eyes fixed on something. Or someone.
A man stood in the demolished doorway of Brett’s former room, also frozen. A tallish man with styled blond hair and thick-rimmed black glasses. A man in a gray suit with a pink shirt and gray tie. A man who looked sort of but not exactly like Lucille.
Chapter Fourteen
There was a rushing sound like someone had turned on all the faucets at once. Everything got quiet, and from a long way away she heard Brett’s voice ask Michel if he knew the man, then ask Lucille if she was all right. He asked what was going on. Michel groaned again and told Brett he’d had enough of this shit for one morning and he was going to lie by the pool. The elevator dinged. The man moved toward her. She unfroze.
“Stay away from me,” she said, backing down the hall.
“Lucy,” the man, the specter, said.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Lucy,” it said again. He said again. Ghosts weren’t real. He was real.
She ran into something and heard a grunt. Dammit, Brett! He was standing behind her, blocking her escape. “Move,” she told him.
“Not until you tell me what’s going on,” Brett, the asshole, said.
“Stop being a dick and get out of the way.” It didn’t work.
“Oh right, because we weren’t in the middle of anything.”
The man in the hall, the one who looked like Simon but couldn’t be him, said, “I think, officer, you should listen to my niece and stay the fuck out.”
It was a very Simon thing to say. The exact thing he would say in this situation. But Simon was away, somewhere far away in exile, never to return to the States again. Only they weren’t in the States. They were on an island, a resort island for the rich and famous. An island so private the only people who knew about it were the guests. It was exactly the place Simon would be. “Simon?” she croaked, her t
hroat constricting.
“Of course, Lucy. Who the fuck else did you think it was?” he said.
“This man is your uncle?” Brett asked. He was still standing right behind her. Not touching her, but close enough that she could feel his presence. It was comforting. Supportive.
Simon glared over her shoulder at Brett. “You know, for a detective, you’re not very astute.”
“I’m not a detective.”
“No? Than what or who are you and why the hell are you here with Michel Polce and my niece?” Simon’s expression hardened. He’d never liked to involve additional people in any of his cases. Lucille could see his gaze flick between them, probably wondering if she’d sunk so low as to bring along a fuck buddy. As if she hadn’t learned from that mistake.
“This is Brett Jacobs. Michel’s best friend. I didn’t have a choice about bringing him, and neither did he. He’s just a failed screenwriter Michel insisted we drag along.”
“Hey.”
Lucille shot him a look over her shoulder. He shrugged back, agreeing that it was true.
“Brett Jacobs. I saw your film, Night Before the Apocalypse. Hated it. It was decidedly awful.”
“That’s the general reaction,” Brett said with a sigh.
“But um...” Simon glanced between them. “This is awkward.”
Lucille realized what was going on but didn’t want to believe it. Why did all the men in her life insist on being such psychopaths? “You blew up Brett’s room, didn’t you?”
He looked sheepish. “I thought you’d brought along another detective, Lucy. What was I supposed to do?”
Brett started toward Simon. “You could have killed me!”
Lucille put an arm out to hold Brett back. She didn’t know why. Some residual family loyalty that hopefully wouldn’t hang around for long.
“Aren’t you glad I didn’t?”
Lucille shook her head. “I need a drink.” She grabbed Brett’s good arm and tugged him toward her hotel room. “You two are coming with me. We have things to discuss.”
Once they were behind closed doors, a round of drinks served—Brett lying on the couch, his injured arm cradled in his lap and his whiskey cradled in his hand, and Simon seated, cross legged and poised in a chair—Lucille glared at her uncle. Her uncle who was ignoring her and watching Brett, who, in turn, was giving him a death stare but was, for once, keeping his mouth shut.
“Are you sure you aren’t a cop?” Simon asked.
Brett snorted.
“He’s way too apathetic to be a cop,” Lucille said for him.
“Hey.”
Lucille shot Brett a glare. He shrugged and took another drink.
“Hmm. This is odd company you’re keeping, Lucy. A client and a...” Simon trailed off, still looking at Brett.
“You don’t get to judge. You”—she paused until her uncle met her eyes—“need to start talking. What the fuck are you doing here? Why the fuck did you try to blow up Brett’s hotel room? And where the fuck have you been for the past eight years?”
Simon sighed and set his drink down on the coffee table, after first finding a coaster for it.
“Lucy—”
“No. You can’t Lucy your way out of this. Answer me.” The last part came out pleading. She was pleading, as much as she hated it. She felt like her twenty-four-year-old self, the young woman whose only stable family member had just been arrested and fled, abandoning her in the big old house with his business and no idea how to run it. Not to mention heartbroken from simultaneously losing the man she loved.
Simon sat back. His face was grim, all suave charm gone. He was watching her like he was seeing her for the first time. She supposed he was. Seeing that she wasn’t the little girl he could distract with jokes and stories. She was older now, wiser, and sick of the bullshit she’d grown up in.
“I blew up the hotel room because I thought you had brought a detective to hunt me,” Simon said.
“Do you really think I’d do that?” Lucille asked.
Brett shifted, the couch squeaking in protest. They both glared at him.
“Um, I’ll just be by the pool,” he said, grabbing the whiskey bottle and retreating from the awkward family situation.
As Brett exited, Lucille studied her uncle. He’d grown older during the years away. It was hidden beneath a dark tan and numerous face lifts, but she could see the age in his gray-speckled hair and the way he carried himself. Less arrogant. More weary of the world.
“I don’t know, Lucy. When I left, you hated me. Remember? You told me you hated me, and I thought it was for the best. I hoped that hate would go away over time, but when I saw you arrive with Mr. Polce and who I thought was a detective, I thought I was wrong and it had grown instead.”
Lucille sat down on Brett’s abandoned couch. “I don’t hate you. Even when I said I did, I didn’t. I was mad at you for leaving me behind.”
Simon reached out and grasped her hand. She let him hold it but didn’t grasp his back. It was all too new, too sudden. It was barely two hours since she’d been almost killed in an explosion set off by the man next to her.
“Lucy, I never wanted to leave you behind. If I could’ve taken you with me, I would’ve. But...”
She raised an eyebrow at him. “But what?”
“Well. The truth is, that man wouldn’t have let you go. I could see it from the way he watched you. He’d have followed you and me to the ends of the earth. There would be no rest for the wicked.”
Lucille snorted. “While I’m sure that was true then, I very much doubt Matt would have followed me after what happened later that day.”
Simon cracked a smile at her. “What did you do?”
“Just told his mother he was impotent and would never be giving her grandchildren.”
Simon laughed at that. “That’s my heartless bitch.”
The tension had eased. Lucille still wanted to know why he was there but decided to let it slide for the moment. She’d missed him. Simon had been the only person she could talk to about work, about her absent, dysfunctional family, about her terrible choices in men. Because he had the same job, the same horrible family, and the same disastrous taste in men. Because he’d raised her since she was little, protected her, and cared for her, even when he was arrested and on the run from the law. Because he was almost fifteen years younger than her mom and only a few years older than herself—he’d been a kid raising another kid, and she couldn’t help but love him for that.
So instead of an interrogation, they talked. Simon told her about his adventures around the world. About the scrapes he’d gotten into and the beautiful men who’d gotten him out only to leave him, broken hearted, for other beautiful men. He shared some of his fabled advice—don’t date underwear models, they aren’t always as gay as they seem. Being a celebrity spin doctor is not actual espionage. Don’t get involved in actual espionage.
Too late, Lucille thought on that one. She didn’t tell him why they were there, not yet. She loved her uncle, but it was his own rule, Simon Anton Rule #5: never trust anyone with a case, particularly your own family. It was about protecting the people you love first and foremost. She still didn’t know the details of his arrest because knowing would have made her vulnerable and, as the twenty-something starting out in the business, she hadn’t had the same friends in high places that Simon did.
Lucille told him about her clients. She updated him on the clients he’d passed along to her. She didn’t mention Christy-Anne and Ryan. Judging by the nonstop texts she was still getting, there was no telling which case would end up in murder, Michel’s or theirs. She recounted the details of her breakup with Matt and his reappearance the previous day. She skipped the part the near booty call the night before.
Finally, the laughter died down and the room grew tense again. They both knew what topic was up next. Lucille cleared her throat and asked, “Have you talked to my mom?”
Simon shook his head. “No, not really.”
�
�Not really?”
He looked pained. “She tracked me down once, found an old phone number I was still using at the time. But she didn’t ask about you. She just wanted money.”
Lucille nodded.
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too.”
The door flew open and Michel, a refreshed and intent Michel, strolled in. “All right, talk,” he said to Simon without so much as a who-the-hell-are-you. He didn’t look surprised to see them talking. Lucille assumed that was because Brett had caught up to Michel and filled him in. Though with Michel, who knew.
“Excuse me?”
“The security tapes are back and you’re on them. Specifically, you were the last man to go into my fiancée’s room the other night. So talk.”
Simon stalled. “Right. Well, it’s not what you think. I mean, I didn’t have sex with her or anything.”
“That’s not what I thought.”
“Oh. Good. Because I didn’t.” It was a tactic Simon used when he knew something and didn’t know who to trust yet. He got them worked up about something else and slowly steered the conversation away.
“Nice try.” Lucille snorted. “But I know your tricks. Do you know where Sylvia Stanton is?”
Simon studied her, annoyed. “Fine. Yes. She’s–”
Brett interrupted by running into the room, his hair stuck up everywhere, the too-big suit looking ridiculous on his slim frame. “The police and your ex-boyfriend the dickhead are here,” he gasped.
Michel continued glaring at Simon. “Oh yeah, and the police are here. So talk fast.”
Lucille glanced at her uncle. His face was expressionless, stony and hiding everything. He’s gonna run, she thought. He’s gonna run and we won’t get any answers out of him.
He met her eyes, his still blank.
She shook her head slowly at him, which she hoped he understood to mean, Don’t even think about doing what you’re thinking about doing. I will kill you.
He looked back at Michel. “I know where Sylvia is and I know what the kidnapper’s plan is. But the only way I can tell you is if we get out of here now. Because if those cops and my niece’s dickhead ex-boyfriend find me here, you can bet they’ll lock me up before you can say squat.”
