Retribution: The Second Chances Trilogy Book Three (5 page)

“Good luck convincing Colin to agree.”

“If you agree, he’ll agree.”

“I don’t know.”

“We’ll find out shortly,” Nate says as the driver negotiates the long cross-town block over to Fifth.

Nate asks for Boris Godunov when he connects with The Plaza from his kitchen phone, gambling that Colin still uses that pseudonym at checkin. The gamble pays off; Colin picks up and focus shifts to keeping him on the line once he knows who he’s talking to.

“I repeat, whatever you do, do
not
hang up!” Nate says.

“Bleedin’ relax, will you? Nobody’s ringing off. Actually, I was gonna get in touch with you in a bit and you’ve saved me the bother. I wanted us to get sorted about the invasion of hot-air balloons that disrupted my—”

“We can go into that another time.”

“No, I think I’ve waited long enough to say what’s—”

“What’s done is done, for God’s sake! Let it go. Shut up and listen, will you? It’s
imperative
you hear what I have to say! I’m just back from Jersey where—”

“Yeh, yeh, I know. Where you were sent to collect Mr. Chandler’s belongings from the nursing home. They did tell me that much.”

“Can you
listen
for a minute? There’s been trouble! Bad trouble. David . . . David Sebastian’s been killed. It happened in the garage of the Chandler house. It was the Jakeway creep we were worried—”

“The
fuck
you say! Don’t
give
me that rubbish!”

“Colin . . . I’m sorry, but it’s true. Laurel was able to identify—”

“Laurel! Where is she? Is she all right?”

“Laurel escaped. She’s here with me. She was badly shaken, but she got away without serious injury.”

“Escaped? Injury?
She
was attacked? What in bloody hell are we talking about? Never mind, I’m coming there. You’re at home, right? Tell her I’ll be there straightaway I find Bemus—fucking hell, where has
he
gone to, then?”

“Shit,” Nate says after Colin hangs up. “I forgot to tell him to bring Amanda.”

“But he
is
coming?” Laurel says from across the room.

“Yeah, but he doesn’t know he’ll be staying. I’m leaving that part to you.”

Nate punches redial, again asks for Boris Godunov and this time there’s no answer. That doesn’t automatically mean Amanda is with Colin—or even that Colin is in transit—but he can’t prove or disprove it because there’s no one else to call. Laurel, when asked, has no idea what names her brothers and sister registered under and he can’t begin to guess, so he’ll have to hope for the best.

He joins Laurel at the breakfast table where she’s taken her usual seat. “No one answers so they must be on the way,” he says, contemplating a wait that may be more trying than the wait for a ride into the city. “Can I get you something? Can you eat something?” he adds, recalling the last time she was here and the way she dealt with stress on that occasion.

“No, thank you.” She refuses even the water he offers. After a long awkward silence, she ventures to say that the wedding was lovely. “Everything was perfect. Even the weather. And the media was kept at bay, major thanks to you for your fantastic idea. Colin tried to call you about that yesterday morning. He thought you came over with Amanda and was giving the Dorchester switchboard hell until I convinced him you were in the States.”

“I take it he was less than pleased with the idea.”

“No such thing. He thought it was brilliant—that’s the exact word he used. He wanted to thank you and invite you to join us.”

“Really? I thought when I spoke to him just now he was pissed about the balloons. The invasion, he called it.”

“He was joking, I promise.”

They ramble on in this manner, staying with safe neutral subjects, all the while listening for the end of the interlude to announce itself in the form of Colin’s arrival.

“I should start on my statement and get ready for their questioning,” Laurel says when they run out of camouflaging subject matter.

He brings a steno tablet and pencils from the housekeeper’s desk. Laurel sets them aside, asks if he has a computer. “I think that will work better. I’m not thinking clearly enough to write without a lot of crossouts,” she says.

“You sure you’re up to it?”

“It’s all right . . . I’m all right, I can do it.”

He shows her to the study, boots the PC, activates the printer. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything,” he says and withdraws with the intention of outlining his own statement.

Before he’s halfway to the kitchen, the chime sounds indicating someone’s on the way up. Before he’s halfway across the foyer, Colin bursts out of the elevator, brushes past him, shooting glances in every direction. “Where is she?” he demands.

“In the study,” Nate says, his glance fixed on the elevator doors that are about to close.

At the last possible moment Amanda steps out of the elevator. Tearstains mark her pale cheeks, so she must have some idea what’s happened. She comes to him without a word, wraps him in a weak embrace.

“I didn’t want to believe what Colin said, but I can tell by your face,” she mumbles into his shirt front.

“Yeah, it’s true. The sonuvabitch got David and he damn near got Laurel.” Nate holds her as close as he can bear with his good arm.

“I
knew
I shouldn’t let David take you to your house! I fucking knew it!” Colin’s voice carries from the study.

“If he hadn’t,
you
would be dead now!” Laurel matches his tone.

Amanda’s gasp goes straight through him when she hears this ugly truth enunciated. Fortunately the door to the study slams shut before any more truths can be overheard.

“I wouldn’t take that too seriously. Anger’s always easier to express than grief,” Nate says and gives her what he hopes is a reassuring squeeze. Amanda reciprocates, he winces and emits his own gasp.

“You’re hurt!” She lets go and backs off. “Good lord, were
you
involved? Were
you
there when it happened? What
did
happen anyway?”

He gives her a condensed version and a promise to fill in details when the detectives arrive.

“I can go with that. Good idea. Then you won’t have to tell the whole story more than once.”

“Exactly, and all the more reason to get the others over here before five when the detectives are due.”

“Laurel’s family, you mean.”

“Yeah. Bemus and Tom Jenson too. I want them all under this roof by four-thirty at the latest. I want them all kept here until the media frenzy abates and there’s some reason to believe Colin and Laurel are not under direct threat. Laurel agrees with me that absolutely no one will look for them here, and it goes without saying that a private property’s easier to secure than a hotel.”

“You’ll get no argument from me, but I didn’t hear you say when the doctor’s scheduled to arrive.”

“What doctor? Oh, you mean for Laurel. The paramedics looked her over at the scene and—”

“For you! Anyone can see you’re hurt by the way you’re standing—all caved in on one side. And what about your arm? Can you move it at all? What did the paramedics say? I know—you didn’t let them examine you, did you? Dammit, Nate, you should be in a hospital and here you are—”

“Can you give it a rest? You haven’t even kissed me hello and I have to be subjected to all this bitching and moaning?”

“Well, I can certainly see what you mean about anger being easier to express than grief,” she says and gives him a chaste peck on the cheek, taking care not to come in contact with any other part of him.

“Fine! Have it your way. I’ll call Walt Finch. He’s here in the building and owes me a favor.”

“
I’ll
call him.”

“Go ahead, be my guest, but I won’t see him until we’re finished with the police. And before you do anything, get in touch with Bemus. Put him in charge of moving himself and the others over here as soon as possible. Oh, and tell him not to check anybody out and to be extra discreet about transferring luggage.”

“He hasn’t had time to return to the hotel yet, but when I do reach him, how much else should he be told?” she says as they move toward the kitchen and the nearest phone.

“If he knows David’s been killed, that’s enough for now.”

In the kitchen, Amanda grabs the steno pad and a pencil from the breakfast table and begins taking notes on the hoof. “Someone better call England before they hear about this on the Sky Channel,” she says, pausing at the center island work station to jot a few things down. “And how about household staff?” She heads for the desk. “You’ll want them recalled, won’t you? If not, this place will resemble a frat house in nothing flat. And there are meals to think about.” She settles in the desk chair and makes several more notations. “Meals for nine people for who knows how long. I think you’ll want more than a part-time cook on hand.”

“I hadn’t thought that far ahead, but that’s not a bad idea, not a bad idea at all.”

None of her ideas are bad, including the one about him seeing a doctor, he acknowledges while struggling to maneuver an extra chair into the space next to her. And woe unto any newcomers who might label her a mere assistant or—God forbid—live-in secretary, despite outward appearances. He allows her to look up Dr. Finch’s home number in the building directory while he digs around in a drawer for a list of time-tested domestic help.

“You never cease to amaze,” he says when she pauses her activity for a moment.

“Why, because I appear coolheaded? Don’t be fooled. When I run out of things to do and I’m satisfied
you
are all right, then I’ll have hysterics, then I’ll fall apart. You can count on it.”

From a spot at her elbow he listens to her convince a Park Avenue physician to make a house call on his day off. Seven p.m., she writes in a space after the doctor’s name. Then she concentrates on connecting with Bemus now that he’s had time enough to return to the hotel. “He’ll have everyone here within the hour,” she says at the finish of that call.

She thinks to call the Glen Abbey police to inquire about the status of his car, specifically the personal items contained in the trunk; she wonders aloud if she should call the mortician who’s presumably waiting for Laurel to show up with a suit of clothes for her dead father.

“If the Wolcott police are following through, they’ll have ordered an autopsy for Mr. Chandler. Wardrobe’s incidental at this point,” he says.

“How about David’s people?”

“The police will have contacted them by now.”

“But will they have told them David’s death was a mistake—that Colin was the intended victim?”

“Jesus, I hope not. And I hope to hell
you’re
not thinking of filling them in.”

“I’m not, but I can’t help wonder if they’ll blame Colin once they do find out . . . I mean, like Rayce’s family did.”

“I’m sure they’ll want to.”

“That is
so
unfair.”

“Yeah, it is, but life’s unfair and so is death.”

She ponders that non-earthshaking remark for a second or two, chews on the blunt end of her pencil.

He’s prepared to hear her views on unfairness but she’s already moved on. “Brownell Yates,” she murmurs. “We have to get hold of him. Yes. Yates and the PI, Harry Newblatt.”

“What are you thinking?”

“They should be called in. They can contribute to the investigation.”

She’s right, of course. Embarrassingly right. Amanda’s thinking is where his ought to be—would be—if his ribs and shoulder didn’t hurt like hell and he weren’t fighting off the urge to retire to a darkened room and scourge himself for the tragedy. If the Sebastian family wants someone to blame, it should be him, not Colin.

The least he can do is take over the clerical chores and free Amanda to apply her skills to more demanding tasks. Especially now that it appears he no longer has to remain in the shadows where Colin is concerned. But he has only Laurel’s word that an olive branch is forthcoming and no word at all regarding Colin’s willingness to accept sanctuary.

“I’ll take care of the remaining contacts,” he says.

She hands over the phone without argument, then calls him chicken when he asks her to bring the Rolodex from the study, where Colin and Laurel are still closeted.

The Glen Abbey detectives arrive with a member of the Wolcott Police Department in tow. That has to be a positive sign. Encouragement can also be taken from the improved behavior of the senior Glen Abbey guy, who is all civility and consideration as he introduces himself, his partner, and the Wolcott addition as Detectives Grillo, Helowicz, and Moffat.

Amanda would say it’s the refined atmosphere that has the three of them figuratively tiptoeing; he’d say it’s the celebrity in their midst that has them taking pains to mask personal interest as he ushers them to seats at the dining room table.

The others at the table have all been told enough that they’re exhibiting some degree of shock. Those newest to the situation, Laurel’s brothers and sister, are most affected. The girl is teary-eyed above the wad of Kleenex held to her nose; the two young men are clearly unnerved behind their grim façades. Colin and Laurel are composed in the way store mannequins are composed—stiff and expressionless. Bemus and Tom Jensen are thin-lipped and stoic, but their body language suggests they see this as their failure.