Just Fall (24 page)

Rob thought about a vacation. Cabo maybe, or Hawaii, places about which he had heard L.A. residents wax rhapsodic. But he was fearful time away would allow him introspection (and what was the use of that?), so he was relieved when Quinn told him about New York. Back to work, figuring angles, executing them—this absorbed Rob, this was what he was good at.

But then there was Ellie. Ellie changed everything.

Lucien strides into the Rodney Bay Marina, searching for
The Whimsy,
Carter Williamson’s boat. Restaurants, cafés, and bars catering to the “yachting lifestyle” hug the shore. Lucien’s eyes scan their patrons: ruddy complexions, plaid shorts, thick gold jewelry, deck shoes. Salsa music bleeds into the hot air, live music from the Ocean Club. Through the windows he sees a few couples dancing, laughing, drinking. He takes in the large, elegant yachts, the diving boats, the catamarans. Seabirds swoop and shriek in the breeze; the bold ones stay close to al fresco diners. There is so much life here. And now, death.

Dirty gray clouds clutter the sky, an ominous harbinger.

A uniformed cop, a young man Lucien knows well, Frank Jessup, sees Lucien and strides over to greet him.

“Red T-shirt, shorts, sneakers.” Jessup says it without preamble.

Lucien feels queasy, remembering Gabrielle’s description of his nephew’s bright red shirt with its dump truck. “I need to see for myself.”

Jessup’s lips tighten, but he nods. “Of course.”

“Lucien, I heard…about Thomas.” It’s Alphonse. The coroner grasps Lucien by the arm.

Instinctively, Lucien steels himself for the gallows humor. But Alphonse surprises him. “I’m praying it’s not him, Lucien,” the old man says.

Lucien blinks back sudden, scalding tears. “Thank you. Have you examined the body yet?”

Alphonse shakes his head. “It’s tight quarters in there. The techs are still at it.”

“I need to take a look.”

“Of course.”

Jessup escorts him onto the boat. It is a Carver 466 Motor Yacht, pretty fancy. Three staterooms, a state-of-the-art stereo system. In the galley, Lucien notes a washer/dryer, a microwave, an electric oven, and a refrigerator/freezer. The door is ajar. The techs see Lucien and part respectfully. Lucien stops. Steels himself to look inside.

Who will it be? Impish little Olivier? Tiny, frail Sebastien, hardly more than a baby? Chubby little Jacob? Skinny Pierre with his knobby knees and big ears? Please not Thomas. Please not some other poor young soul Lucien isn’t even aware has gone missing.

Lucien peers into the refrigerator, expectant and afraid. He sees the body of a small boy. The child’s limbs are contorted, stuffed into the refrigerator at an awkward, clumsy angle. He is wearing a bright red T-shirt.

Lucien shudders.

This little boy has a halo of soft frizzy curls, café-au-lait skin. Not Thomas. Thank you, sweet Jesus. But Lucien swells with sorrow and rage. The boy is Olivier Cassiel. Lucien flashes on the cocky little smile, the way the child had shown off his muscles in the photograph his terrified parents had provided. Now Lucien must tell them their prayers have gone unanswered; their son is dead.

Ellie stood next to Jason’s bed for a moment before sitting down in the room’s ugly orange guest chair. The machines that kept him alive clicked and hissed relentlessly. Ellie shuddered. Then she reached over and touched Jason’s forehead, gently.

“I’ve come to tell you something,” she began. “Do you remember, Jason, when we used to feel invincible? How we used to joke that our only quest was how to feel more pleasure, living as we were in the House of Pleasure? Everything was ours for the taking then. We had so much goddamn hope.”

Ellie took his nonresponsive hand in hers. Her engagement ring sparkled even in the green-tinged fluorescent light.

“When you told me about Doug and you—I wish I had been able to show you more compassion. If I had, everything might have been different. So I’ve come to tell you I’m sorry.”

Ellie fell silent, lost in the memories of the girl she had once been, the love she had shared with the man who was now consigned to a hospice, lost forever to what the doctors called a persistent vegetative state.

She took a breath. “And I’ve come to tell you I’m getting married. His name is Rob. Rob Beauman. He’s made me feel healed, Jason. And I’ve debated it back and forth in my head a million times and I’ve decided I just can’t tell him about you and Doug and what really happened between us at my apartment that night. And I’m sorry about that too. I wish love meant complete honesty, but I’m scared, Jason. If I tell him, he will see me as a monster. You claimed to love me, yet you kept a secret from me, didn’t you? So you understand, right? I just can’t risk it. I can’t bear the thought of looking in his eyes and seeing revulsion, not love. So this will be my last visit to you, and I’m sorry for that too. I won’t come back, ever again. I have to look forward to my future, and tell you for the last time how sorry I am I robbed you of yours. Please forgive me.”

Ellie blew her nose and swiped at her eyes, struggling to regain her composure. A stocky, Filipino male nurse entered to check on Jason and glanced at her sympathetically.

“Sorry to interrupt. Do you need a moment?”

“No. Thank you. I was just going.”

As Ellie passed the nurse on her way out, he touched her arm. “It’s good you come every week. But I know it’s hard to see him like this. You’re a young woman. You gotta get on with your life.”

Lucien emerges from his captain’s office, his eyes swimming. He has just been put on compassionate leave, despite his protests that nothing conclusive links his missing nephew with the two murders or even the other three missing boys, for that matter. Bonnaire does not see it that way. The captain believes there is a strong probability that Lucien’s nephew, Thomas, has met the same fate as poor little Olivier Cassiel.

“No!” Lucien had snapped. The thought of Thomas dead is unthinkable. In Lucien’s mind all of the missing boys are alive and in need of rescuing. And it is his job to do just that.

But the captain has insisted: Lucien should be at home with his wife and her family during this extremely trying time.

Lucien had seen the look in Bonnaire’s eyes. Pity. Determination to set Lucien straight. Delivering the hard truth for Lucien’s own good. It was infuriating.

Lucien had come close to rank insubordination as he argued with Bonnaire. They have a lead on the taxi. He is looking deeper into Williamson’s partner. Interviewing the girlfriend again. Lucien has work to do. He doesn’t want to go anywhere.

The captain was stunned by Lucien’s vehemence but held firm. The island is exploding with press. The deaths of two expat Americans have inflamed a salacious journalistic hunger. The pressure on Bonnaire is intense and intensifying. He needs men at the top of their game, he informed Lucien. Not a distracted uncle.

As Lucien paces the corridor, his emotions speed from shock to disbelieving grief. Go home! Sit and wait! Impossible!

A square-jawed American man with salt-and-pepper hair talks to the desk sergeant, drawing Lucien’s attention from his own agitation. The man is insisting he speak to the detective in charge of the investigation into the death of the American man found in the Grande Sucre Hotel. This in itself is not unusual; every high-profile case brings its fair share of tipsters, psychics, nut jobs, and false confessors. What catches Lucien’s eye, however, are the faint scars on this man’s face. They betray that once upon a time, this man might have had his lip sliced off.

Rob tried to still his fidgeting fingers. He cracked his knuckles once, decisively, and then folded his hands on the table in front of him.

He was early. He had his back to the wall and a clear view of the door. The restaurant was quietly elegant. Rob dreaded this meeting, even though he had called it.

When Quinn came through the door, Rob’s heart started pounding. Quinn spotted him and waved off the hostess. Strode over and pulled out a chair and sat.

“You’re looking well.”

Rob didn’t reply.

“Must be love.”

“I saw you, you know. That day at the department store. It’s not like I’m hiding it from you. It’s why I asked to see you today.”

Quinn smiled at him. “I’m kind of hurt, actually. You’re not asking your own father to the wedding?”

“Look, it’s not that I’m not grateful. I am. For everything. But I love this girl, and I see a chance for a different kind of life. Surely you want that for me too?”

“I’ve always been invested in your happiness.”

Hope sprang up in Rob’s heart. “So you agree? We can go our separate ways?”

Quinn put his hand lightly on Rob’s wrist. “It may not be as easy as you think, this life you want with a white picket fence, brats in the yard, and an SUV. Can you deny you get a rush from the work we do, the way we live?”

“Maybe I did. Once. Not anymore.”

“But you have a job to finish, yes?”

“I can’t do it.”

Suddenly Quinn’s fingers tighten. “You can and you will. You will finish what you started. Don’t forget just how much I know about you. How many murders I can link you to if I choose.”

“And if I do?”

“And then, just one more thing.”

“What?”

“You remember your old friend? Matt Walsh?”

“Of course I do.” The shock on Matt’s face, the rush of blood spurting down his chin.

Quinn leaned across the table and beckoned Rob to come in closer. “The one outsider who can link the two of us. He’s moved. Changed his name. But I’ve found him. And you will kill him. And then, son, I will let you go.”

Quinn released Rob’s wrist. Rob looked down at his arm where Quinn had gripped him; a bruise was already starting to stain his skin.

Rob thought of Ellie’s delicate bones, her tender heart. He looked up and met Quinn’s gaze.