Deceived (20 page)

“I’m mortified and embarrassed. I behaved in a manner that was unacceptably childish,” she said. “I’m sorry. You’re correct. I should have told you.” She hesitated. “I really, really feel uncomfortable talking about this. I wasn’t expecting it to feel like that, but I should have known.”

“If you had told me,” he said, “I could have figured something out. I don’t usually get complaints, Taylor.”

“If I had told you,” she said, “we wouldn’t have even kissed.”

“I at least would have tried to persuade you not to waste your virginity on me.”

“Better to waste it on you,” she said, “than to marry some poor guy because I’m horny and promised myself that I’d wait until marriage when I was a chubby seventeen-year-old bookworm with more than a little acne.”

She heard Brandon chuckle as she pulled into Collette’s driveway and parked next to Collette’s Jaguar. She took his chuckle as a good sign. Maybe he wasn’t furious with her, but the memory of his erect penis was too vivid in her mind to believe that he wasn’t suffering residual effects. As her cheeks flushed with heat, she asked, “Are you all right?”

“I’ll live,” he said, “but that won’t happen again.”

“No,” she agreed, but wondered precisely what he meant by
that
. “Definitely not.”

“Goodnight, Taylor,” he said.

“Goodnight, Brandon.”

All the lights on the street side of Collette’s house were off. Maybe she wasn’t home, even though both of her cars were there. Taylor went to the door and rang the bell.

There was no answer.

Taylor called Andi, who picked up on the second ring. “Is your date that good?”

“Actually, we’re walking out of the movie, and I just ducked into the restroom. Your timing is perfect. Taylor, he’s precious. Nice. Not from here.”
Not from here
meant a lot to Andi. She was a serial dater and hated locals, men who never seemed to get past the Hutchenson name and the wealth that it stood for. “We’re going out for a few drinks and some appetizers. Why don’t you and Collette join us?”

Andi’s question assumed that Taylor had made contact with Collette. “I haven’t been able to reach her. I’m at her house now. Her car is here, but the lights are off, and she’s not answering the door. I was wondering if you and she talked?”

“Last I spoke with her was this morning, and I know that she didn’t have plans.” Andi said. “This doesn’t sound right.”

“I’ll call Claude. Maybe she had dinner with him.”

There was a pause. Taylor could imagine Andi’s eye roll. “Right. Claude’s been so freaking self-centered since he ascended to the Westerfeld seat on the board that he hasn’t realized his sister is dying from grief.” She paused again. “Okay. That was all true, but really mean.”

“Hey,” Taylor said, thinking of Claude’s abrupt comments earlier in the evening. “I’m not arguing with you.”

“Well,” Andi said, “call me after you talk to him, or when you find her.”

Taylor walked along the side of Collette’s house, to see whether lights were on in the park side of the house. As she walked, she dialed Claude. When he answered, she heard conversations and glasses clinking. “Hey, Taylor. What’s up?”

“I’m looking for Collette.”

“She’s not with me.”

“Do you have any idea where she is?” The flagstone path was narrow and not well lit. Beyond the path and Collette’s front garden there was the park, which was beautiful in the daytime. At night, it was too much dark, empty space. Taylor swallowed back sudden fear.

“No.” Claude didn’t seem concerned.

Taylor said, “Thanks, Claude.” She broke the connection.

From outside, there were no visible lights in the living room or bedroom, both of which overlooked the park. Taylor rang the door bell. As she waited, she dialed Collette’s home phone. She could hear it from outside. There was no answer. The hair on the back of her neck stood as she sensed that someone was watching her. She turned, quickly. A shadow moved, twenty yards into the park, in the direction of a tree. Everything else was still. She turned back to the house and heard water. It was either a faucet, or a drip, coming from somewhere. She stepped back, wondering whether she was hearing a nearby garden fountain.

No. It was coming from inside Collette’s house. Maybe. She couldn’t tell. She bent to the pane of etched glass that was in Collette’s door, but there were no lights on and she couldn’t see in. Taylor tried the knob. It wasn’t locked. Fear raced through her, yet she pushed the door open. Collette’s alarm should have made noise, but there was nothing. Taylor’s eyes adjusted to the interior darkness. Water was falling through the living room, from the part of the ceiling that was directly below where she knew Collette’s bathroom was located.

Taylor took the stairs two at a time. She ran across the landing, through Collette’s bedroom, and pushed open the door of the bathroom. Collette was sleeping in the tub, not paying attention to the water that was overflowing.

No. Not sleeping.

“Oh God.”

Collette was unconscious, her long red hair floating around her. Taylor lurched toward the tub, slipping on water that covered the tile floor, while pulling her friend out of the cold, cold water. Good God. Collette was cold. Too cold.

“Collette,” she screamed. “Wake up.”

She couldn’t drag Collette to the carpeted bedroom. She was heavy and stiff, and, without clothes, too slippery.
God.
Collette’s lips were blue.
Help.
She needed help. Taylor found her cell phone on the floor. It was wet, but it worked. She dialed 911, tried to stay calm as she gave the address, then said, when they asked for a name, “Collette Westerfeld. She’s unconscious. Hurry. Please.”

“Come on, baby. Wake up,” she begged. “Please wake up.” She tried to open Collette’s eyes. She slapped her cheeks, at first gently, then harder. She tried C.P.R., or what she remembered of resuscitation efforts from a long ago class. Collette didn’t respond. She was so, so cold. Taylor hugged her, trying to warm her.
Please. No. Good God.
“Wake up, Collette. Wake up. Please. Please.”

Taylor heard sirens. Doors slammed and footsteps ran up the stairs. A hand fell on her shoulder. Warm brown eyes looked into hers. “We’ll take it from here.”

“She’s cold,” Taylor said, as one of two young paramedics pried her arms off of Collette. The other paramedic turned off the faucets. They laid Collette on the floor and checked for vital signs. Taylor sat on the floor, her eyes locked on Collette, as she answered their questions. “She was unconscious when I got here. I tried to revive her.”

“Do you know what she took?”

“She’s been on antidepressants,” Taylor choked on a sob, “and she uses sleeping pills. She lost her mother and brother recently.”

The paramedic with the brown eyes glanced at Taylor. He said, “Westerfeld. The plane crash?”

“Yes,” Taylor said. It had happened as they were landing in Houston, but it had been covered on the local news.

One of the paramedics glanced towards the tub. Taylor glanced there with him, to where prescription bottles stood among bubble bath and bath salts. Taylor counted four open bottles. One of the paramedics examined the bottles as the other attended to Collette. “Sleeping pills, antidepressants, and anti-anxiety meds.” He found another bottle. “Migraine medicine. Most of these are empty.”

The two young men exchanged a long look. The one who was working on Collette kept trying to revive her. After a while, he shook his head. Both of them focused their attention on Taylor. By the way they no longer seemed to care that Collette wasn’t breathing, by the way the rush to save a life had gone still, she knew that Collette was dead.

“No,” Taylor screamed. “No. Good God. No.”

The brown-eyed paramedic came to her. He rested a comforting hand on her shoulder, as he used a towel to dry some of the water that surrounded Taylor. The warmth of his hand helped her control her screams. She stood, aware that her jeans were dripping with water, but not caring. She leaned against the counter, trying to breathe.

“Are you all right?”

She nodded, even though the answer was no. He handed Taylor her cell phone, which he had dried, and had checked to see that it was working. He asked, “Was the man who directed us here a neighbor, or is he related to her?”

“What man?”

The paramedic glanced at his partner. “He met us at the street and led us up the stairs. He was here, in the doorway, until a minute ago.”

Taylor shook her head. “I don’t know. I didn’t see him.”

“Well, is there someone you can call?”

Taylor’s first thought was to call Andi. Or Claude. But she knew that she had to call her father, before the others. George was the clearing house for all serious emergencies that affected the HBW families, especially emergencies in which Taylor was involved. When he answered, emotion choked her, and she could only sob.

“Taylor?”

She fought for words, but when she spoke, she stuttered. “D-d-dead. Coll-Collette.”

“Taylor,” George said. “Compose yourself.”

Taylor somehow got out a couple of meaningful sentences around the words
Collette
and
drugs
and
overdose
.

“Do not call anyone. This does not need to be made public. I’m on my way. I’ll call my doctor.”

“I did,” Taylor said, breathing deep. “I called 911.”

“Do you have any goddamn sense?”

Taylor saw herself in the bathroom mirror, wild-eyed and pale.
Sense?
Evidently, she didn’t have the kind that her father valued.

She doubted that she ever would.

Chapter Twelve

At eleven thirty Brandon was finishing a discovery strategy session with Mitch and Pete. Much of what Mitch needed to find out in the case would involve Pete’s investigative skills rather than Mitch’s legal skills. As they left, Brandon walked to the kitchen area, where Anna was rocking Michael, who let out a loud cry as Brandon’s cell phone rang. He answered Sebastian’s call, saying, “I have to call you back.”

“What the hell is that noise?”

“A long story,” Brandon said, taking the baby from Anna as she stood to prepare a bottle.

“I have time,” Sebastian said.

“I don’t. I have a house full of lawyers,” Brandon said, “and a crying baby.”

Michael cried again. Sebastian asked, “Who thought it was a good idea to bring a baby to your house?”

“Let me call you in a few hours.”

“Don’t forget, because now you’ve got me curious.”

Brandon took the bottle from Anna, made sure Michael was going to start taking it, then returned to the study with Michael and Jett. He introduced his son to Steve, one of his more experienced junior partners, and Noel, a third year associate. Brandon sat and fed Michael and listened.

The Alford case had bad injuries and decent facts for liability. The trial was to begin on Thursday and would last at least three trial days. They talked jury strategy and, when the bottle was empty, Brandon stood, placed Michael against his shoulder, and patted his back.

“Pretend I’m a distracted judge,” he said, “and give me your opening.” When Steve completed the argument, Michael’s burp filled the silence. “Success,” Brandon said, “all around.”

Brandon had promised Steve and Noel his undivided attention and, after depositing Michael with Anna, for three hours he gave it to them. At three in the morning, Steve and Noel packed their litigation bags and left.

He wondered whether he should try for sleep. After checking on Michael, who was snoozing, he climbed the stairs, then paused at the threshold of his bedroom, which had been completed after Amy’s death. Until tonight, it hadn’t been a place for sex, not with anyone. He kept condoms there, but they were for taking elsewhere. More often than a place for sleeping, his bedroom was a solitary space where his thoughts drifted to what his life would have been had he stopped working on April 5th, five years earlier, and driven Amy, his witty, sharp, compassionate wife to the birthday party. He either would have avoided the accident that had stolen his soul, or he would have died with her. Either scenario was better than what he was left with, a life without his precious wife and their unborn child, and guilt over their deaths.

Tonight, his bedroom’s hue wasn’t of distant, fading memories, and it wasn’t about missing what could have been. The normally neat bed linens were in a disarray. He bet that he’d be able to smell Taylor’s perfume on the sheets.

A virgin.

He wasn’t going near the bed until Esme changed the linens in the morning. Taylor had said that she was ready to lose her virginity.
Great. Just great.
She could do that with someone else. He didn’t want the drama. Sex would be important to her. It wouldn’t be to him.

Right
?

Doubt about whether his limitations were real or imagined was such an original, unexpected thought, that he almost didn’t detect it. The only solace in the fact of her virginity was that his instinct about Taylor had been dead on.

Yet even now, while his mind said stay-the-hell away, he started getting hard at the memory of his mouth on her breasts, his fingers toying with her, her soft moans, and her throaty cries.
Aww fuck.
Getting partly inside of her had been incredible. She might be composed in public, but in bed, she was anything but cool, calm, and controlled.
Damn it
. He made a call as he went downstairs. Velvet answered by saying, “Hello, gorgeous.”

“Do you have time for me?”

“I’m finishing my last client now,” she said, “Give me a few minutes and I’ll be ready.”

Brandon broke the connection with Velvet, than sent Sebastian a text. “
You up
?”

His phone rang within a few seconds. Sebastian asked, with a groan and a yawn, “Do you ever, ever sleep?”

“Not often enough,” Brandon said. “Sorry I couldn’t talk earlier.”

“It was eleven-thirty on a Friday night and you were in a room with a crying baby. What the hell is that about?”

“He’s mine.”

Silence. Then, “No shit?”

“None at all.”

“Babies don’t appear out of nowhere. How old is he and when were you going to tell me? Who is the mother? Hell,” Sebastian paused for a breath. “I didn’t know that you were serious with anyone. Did you marry someone and not tell me about it? Son of a bitch. Last I heard, and it wasn’t that long ago when we had that discussion, you were never doing serious again.”

“He’s two months old, he’s the product of a one-night stand, and DNA has confirmed that he’s mine. One of the condoms that I used that night was obviously defective, if you can believe that.”

“Don’t tell me that shit.”

“It’s true. His mother was murdered Wednesday night, I’m not a suspect, thank God, but I’m now the sole parent, and I’m trying like hell to make sense of her murder.”

“When were you going to tell me about this?”

“I found out about him two weeks ago. I didn’t even know that she was pregnant. You were out of the country. It’s been a whirlwind,” Brandon said, “and I wanted to tell you in person.”

“Some things shouldn’t wait, dumb ass. She was murdered? What the hell?”

Brandon told Sebastian what he knew about Lisa’s murder. When he was through, Sebastian asked, “Do you need help?”

“With the baby?” Brandon chuckled. Sebastian had never been married and as far as Brandon knew, had never held or cared for a baby.

“Don’t laugh. I could help with something. Not with changing diapers, but with something. At least I can help with whatever you’re doing to figure out who murdered her. I know you well enough to know that you’re trying,” Sebastian paused, “and I know a thing or two about investigations.”

“Black Raven doesn’t need to get involved. This is a local matter.”

“The world’s small. Everything is local,” Sebastian said, “Besides, you have access to any and all Black Raven assistance.”

“I can handle this.”

“Well, at least agree to keep me informed.”

“Agreed.”

“On another note,” Sebastian paused, “I was calling to tell you a few more things that I figured out about Victor. Odd things that are out of character for your brother and,” there was a long pause, “you know I don’t like odd things.”

Brandon returned to the keeping room as he listened to Sebastian talk about Victor’s financial status before his death, and where they’d been able to trace some of Victor’s money. Michael was still sleeping, Jett was snoozing, and Anna was reading. Brandon whispered to Anna, “I’m going out. Call me if there’s any problem.”

Brandon started his car as he listened to Sebastian run through more of the facts that he had uncovered about Victor’s bank accounts and expenditures over the last year. “So, to sum it all up,” Sebastian said, “your brother had been paid well, but he spent big, mostly using a few aliases that I have solidly traced to him. I think that he acquired a few properties in the States last year. We’re working on locations. Some of his accounts are impossible to trace, and he used so many aliases it’s a nightmare to trace all his assets. What struck me most was repeated payments over the last four years to the Zurich Health Institute. Ever heard of it?”

“No.” Brandon exited the interstate, took the Vieux Carre exit, turned onto Esplanade, then pulled in front of Velvet’s two-story house, parked his car, and stepped out.

“They serve medical needs of the super wealthy. On a cosmetic level, they specialize in identity-changing plastics. They also do private donor organ transplants and they’re a pioneer in alternative cancer therapies.”

“Kate and mom knew he was sick. They weren’t sure what he had. Mom says that he’d been getting better.”

“Anyway, over the the last four years, Victor spent almost four million there, in regular installments, until three months ago. Don’t know what for yet.”

“But intel tells us Victor is dead,” Brandon said. “So why do I care about his financial data or what medical procedures he was getting?”

“Well, coincidentally, three months ago, a full month before we think that he died, all of his account activity stopped. And I mean everything, not only payments to Zurich. He drained his accounts and sold assets. We’re looking for credit card activity, flights, phone calls, border crossings, but so far we’re finding nothing with any of his aliases. He went totally off the grid, even the grid that his kind of paranoid mercenary lives on.” Brandon knocked on Velvet’s door as Sebastian continued, “It’s as though he was planning on disappearing, and that’s bothering me. I’m also concerned that there’s something that I’m not seeing, like aliases that we haven’t figured out. Given his prior activity, the sudden lack of activity is out of character. I’m starting to think that his death may not be what it appears to be. I mean, why would all activity stop a full month before his death? Unless, of course, he was trying to disappear.”

Velvet wore a white leather halter top that did little to conceal high, tight breasts. Jean shorts exposed most of a flat midriff and long, lean, muscular legs. Her dark hair was long and in a neat, high ponytail. When she saw that Brandon was on the phone, she stood on barefooted tiptoes and gave him a silent kiss on both cheeks. She led him to a spa-like room. He continued his conversation with Sebastian as he sat on Velvet’s table.

“So you’re starting to doubt that Victor really is dead?”

“I hate to admit that I could be wrong and I’m not willing to admit it yet. Really. I’m sorry, Brandon. I don’t know. I’m looking into it more,” Sebastian said, “and Ragno’s team is also trying to figure this out.”

“He told my mother that he had to disappear, for whatever that’s worth.”

“You told Rose that I think that he’s dead?”

“Yes,” Brandon said, wishing that he had waited. “She doesn’t believe it.”

“I hate to say this, but given the financial shenanigans, I’m wondering if he staged his death. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called you last night without analyzing the financial data.”

Brandon thought about giving Sebastian a hard time, but the reality was he’d known the guy almost all of his life, and Sebastian didn’t usually make mistakes. “Hey. Don’t beat yourself up.”

“I’m not yet saying that he’s alive. I’m saying this is weird and I didn’t want to keep it from you.”

Velvet pressed a glass with a healthy pour of dark rum into Brandon’s hand as he ended the phone call. He drained it, and she poured him another as he unbuttoned his shirt. The smooth tone of her voice matched her name, as she said, “That didn’t sound good.”

“It wasn’t,” Brandon said. He slipped off his shirt and took off his jeans.

Velvet turned on her overhead light and bent to examine the tattoo on his waist. The letter to Amy and Catherine was something that he’d written in his darkest days. He had it translated into Mandarin, and Velvet had inked the delicate lettering onto him. It had been her most recent work of art to be completed. “You’ve healed well. So what do you want to work on? The maze, or something new?”

“The maze.” Brandon finished the rum. He lay face down. With the machine’s hum, his mind drifted. Fatigue came with the needle’s first sting, and dreams came with sleep. Randomness coalesced to thoughts of the house fire that had suffocated his sister, destroyed their home, and the documents that Marcus had gathered in his lifelong quest to prove Benjamin’s innocence. The fire was ruled an accident. Victor, fourteen at the time, had insisted that there were no accidents. Anger, a dominant Morrissey male trait, made anything good in Victor disappear.

No accidents
.

Victor had blamed the fire on a man. A man, who was watching their house. A man.
A really smart man
, Victor had yelled,
can make anything look like an accident
.
It takes a smarter man to see through it,
he had yelled
. The fire marshall was an idiot.

His father had killed himself six months after the fire. Victor’s reaction was equally destructive, but not self-directed. After that, other fires mysteriously started in their neighborhood. Brandon suspected Victor, but no one else did. More disturbing than the fires, which didn’t result in loss of life, was the fate of animals in River’s Bend. From the time that Victor was fourteen, until Victor left home at the age of eighteen, animals in their neighborhood were found dead. The deaths were written off as accidents. Odd accidents, though, because a Labrador retriever who could swim drowned. A roof of a rusty shed fell on a cat and smashed its head, when the cat should have been able to dart away. A toy poodle who never left its yard was found half-eaten, streets away, in a yard where a pit bull lived. No one knew how the poodle got there. When squirrels died, people found their furry corpses in unusual places, in unusual positions.