by J. Kenner
“Felicia.”
“No. I’m calling about Gabriella.”
There’s a pause on the line. “Go ahead.”
“Before his death, her father—well, Jeff Anderson—said she should call you. At least, I assume it was you he meant.”
“I see.” Another long pause. “Is she there? Has she met with the probate attorney yet?”
“Ms. Smythe passed away. But no. She hasn’t spoken to anyone. She’s—she’s been laying low.”
“I see,” he says, and from the tone of his voice I think he does understand. “There are things she should know. Can I speak to her?”
I’m already off the bed by the time Ryan nods at me, and I race to the other side of the suite and pound on the door. Baxter opens it, looking confused, and when I tell him to get Gabby, he opens the second connecting door to the bedroom and calls for her to come out of the bathroom. The bed, I notice, hasn’t been slept in. But the sofa bed in Baxter’s part looks thoroughly rumpled.
I meet Baxter’s eyes as we wait, and I watch as red creeps up his neck. A moment later, Gabby emerges in a bathrobe, her mouth forming an O when she sees me.
“Like I’m going to judge,” I say, then take her arm. “Come on. We have the attorney on the phone for you.”
“Oh!”
They both follow, and we meet Ryan, who’s coming toward us, by the couch. We all sit, and Ryan puts the phone on the coffee table.
“She’s here,” he says.
“Gabriella?” His voice is fuzzy over the speaker phone. “My name is Martin Meeks. I’m an attorney and a friend of your father. I understand you haven’t spoken to anyone yet about the probate of Randall Cartwright’s will?”
Her brow furrows. “No. Why would I? It didn’t have anything to do with me. It’s not like Randall reached out after my dad contacted him about the DNA results. He’s never had anything at all to do with me. I mean, I assume you know all that?”
“I do. Yes. As far as what you’re specifically saying goes, yes.”
Gabby looks at me, and I shrug. “What does that mean?” she asks.
There’s a pause, then Martin clears his throat and says, “Some of what I need to tell you is public record. Some is more personal. But I’d like confirmation that you’re you. I’d like to ask you some questions that Mr. Cartwright set up. Is that okay?”
She looks completely baffled. I’m not surprised. I’m baffled, too. I catch her eye and shrug. She grimaces, then nods. “Sure. I guess.”
“Who was Mr. Anderson’s best friend growing up?”
“Randall Cartwright.”
“And who was the third member of their group of friends?”
“I—I don’t know. I didn’t know about any of this until right before my father died. It was sudden—a car wreck. He didn’t tell me anything.”
“I see. Well, this will take a bit longer, then. And the truth is that if you are Gabriella, then there’s not much time left.”
“For what?” I ask, unable to keep my mouth shut.
“I’m sorry. You are—?”
“Wait!” Gabriella leans closer. “Was the friend a woman?”
Martin is silent.
“I’m right, aren’t I? Lorraine. Her name was Lorraine.”
For a moment, there’s silence, then Mr. Meeks says, “Yes, Ms. Anderson. That was her name.”
“How the hell did you know that?” I ask.
“It’s my middle name.” She makes a face. “I hate it, but Daddy always said it was a name that was important to him. I took a shot.”
“What’s going on?” Ryan demands. “Ms. Anderson’s life is in danger. She’s answered your questions. Now answer ours.”
“Immediately following Felicia’s death, Randall changed his will to leave his entire estate to William, his stepbrother.”
I meet Ryan’s eyes. That explains why William has the house. He probably set up his own trust.
“Following that alteration in his will, Randall received word from Mr. Anderson.”
“About the paternity test,” Gabby says. “Daddy said he told Randall that Felicia and I were biologically his. But like I said, he never reached out to me.”
“I can’t speak to that. But I can tell you that once he learned about you, Randall changed his will again. His entire estate goes to his surviving issue. If no such issue presents a claim for the estate within one year, then William inherits everything.”
“And in the meantime, the property is held in trust,” Ryan says, in the kind of tone that suggests the pieces are firmly falling together. As for Gabby, she looks to be in shock.
“When does the year expire?” I ask.
“Ms. Anderson will need to come forward by the end of the day on Monday,” Mr. Meeks says, then outlines the procedure for doing that. “Do you understand the process?”
“I think so,” she says, looking at Baxter, who nods.
“Once you’ve officially made a claim, your identity will be verified. You were identical twins, of course. But Randall wanted to ease the fight for you if you wanted to make the claim. I have tissue samples of his stored with various Cyro organizations so that DNA can be confirmed.”
“Okay.” That’s all Gabby says. She looks a little shell-shocked.
“I’m very happy to have heard from you,” Mr. Meeks says. “And I know your father—both of them—would be pleased.”
We end the call, and Gabby looks between the two of us. “Why didn’t Daddy tell me this a year ago?”
“He may not have realized that the will had been changed to include any kids, and not just Felicia,” Ryan says. “Or maybe he thought the estate would be an albatross. We’ll probably never know.”
“Maybe he only learned about the will recently,” I suggest. “Around the time he started to fear someone was trying to hurt you.”
“My uncle, you mean.” Her voice is full of bitterness. “Maybe Daddy just knew that this was not a family I would want to be a part of.”
“It’s not William,” Ryan says. “He’s the one who snuck me this number. But I think it’s time for a talk with his wife.”
Chapter Twenty
The cab pulled up in front of William’s home just as Ryan was ending his call. He slipped his phone into his pocket and stepped out onto the sidewalk in time to watch the front door open. The maid he remembered from his last visit stepped out with a suitcase. That was when he noticed the Rolls-Royce idling a few yards up.
“Is William available?”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, sir. He’s resting. He just took his medicine. I’m afraid he’s not doing well.”
Ryan glanced at the suitcase, a sense of urgency building inside him. “You’re going away?”
“Yes. The family is going to the country. Mrs. Atkinson hopes the fresh air will be better for Mr. William.”
“And Mrs. Atkinson. Is she available?”
“No, sir. She’s packing.”
“Not a problem. I’ll wait in the front hall. It’s important.”
She gaped at him, but he turned toward the house and continued on. As Ryan knew well, acting like you had authority was often as good as actually having it.
When he reached the doorway, he turned back, pleased to see that the maid was not behind him, but had continued toward the waiting Rolls.
Good.
He entered, then went through the front hall to the library. He had no intention of waiting for Carolyn Atkinson. He needed to talk to William, and he desperately hoped the old man was still coherent.
He wanted to kick himself for not realizing it before, but until he knew about the one-year survivor clause, the bell hadn’t rung. Now, though, he understood.
Carolyn Atkinson had a plan. Keep her husband alive long enough to fully inherit the estate. But keep him doped up so that he didn’t spoil anything by revealing the existence of Gabby. Or, God forbid, trying to contact her.
Considering the crossword clue, William had been reasonably sharp when Ryan had
been here last, but he feared that the maid had reported his visit—and that the meds had been increased. With luck, once he was off the drug, whatever it was, his faculties would return.
He assumed that as his wife, Carolyn was William’s beneficiary, which meant that once the estate was vested in William, his life would be in jeopardy, too. Carolyn would simply wait a reasonable time, then increase the dose or smother him in his sleep or send him “sleepwalking” in front of a train.
And as far as Ryan was concerned, now that he’d figured that out, if he didn’t prevent it, the death of Gabby’s uncle—the uncle who had loved Felicia—would be on him.
Hopefully William would be coherent and able enough to leave with Ryan voluntarily. But either way, Ryan was getting the man out.
He reached the library only to have his hopes shattered. The old man sat in the same recliner, but even though barely any time had passed since Ryan’s last visit, he appeared shrunken under the blanket. He smacked his lips and a stream of drool trailed from the corner of his mouth.
He looked asleep, but his eyes were wide open, staring somewhere over Ryan’s head.
“William?” His voice was a whisper.
There was no response.
“William?”
Ryan stepped closer and saw the little paper cup on the floor beside him. Apparently, he’d just been dosed. And probably higher than usual in preparation for the car ride.
“Come on, sir,” he said, moving forward to ease the man’s dead weight out of the chair. “We’re just going to get some fresh air.”
William’s eyes widened, and in a low, craggy voice, he murmured, “Go.”
“Yes. Yes, sir. We’re going to go. Come on.” Since there was no wheelchair, he assumed the man could walk. He bent to get an arm around him, but as he did, William grabbed his hair and shoved him down.
Not expecting the move, Ryan struggled to get his balance, only to see William snatch the heavy walking stick, and with more strength than he expected from a man in William’s condition, he slashed it around in front of him, missing Ryan’s head by only three or four inches.
Ryan heard a thud, and he turned around in time to see Carolyn Atkinson fall to the ground. In the chair, William chuckled, then looked at Ryan, his eyes still foggy, but his word surprisingly clear. “Bitch.”
“Sir…how?”
William grinned, then shoved his hand into the crevice between the cushion and the arm of the chair. When he pulled it up again, his palm was full of pills. “Hid as many as I could. Would have said something that first day, but I’ve never been sure of Jennifer—that’s the maid. And today? Well, Carolyn’s been lurking. Ah, ah, ah.” He lifted the stick and pointed it again at the woman now struggling to get up.
“Allow me,” Ryan said, taking the walking stick and pressing the capped end on her chest to hold her down.
“Mrs. Atkinson!” Jennifer called, rushing in. “There’s a constable here, and—”
“Jennifer,” Ryan said as the constable followed her in, “why don’t you take a seat? I’m sure Constable Higgins is going to have plenty of questions for you. Constable, your timing couldn’t be more perfect. I’d like to introduce you to Mr. William Atkinson. I think you’ll be interested in what he has to say.”
“I’m sure I will, sir,” Higgins said as another constable and a sergeant arrived while Carolyn Atkinson went white with fury.
“The chief inspector’s outside, sir,” Higgins said.
“I’ll go see him,” Ryan said, then patted William’s shoulder. “You’re in good hands. I’ll be back soon. And then there’s someone I want you to meet.”
He left William with the constable, then headed out, thankful that he’d been right, that William was now safe, and that the hunch behind his call to Higgins—who he knew well since the constable’s beat included the London Stark Tower—hadn’t turned out to be completely wrong.
He waved to Chief Inspector Gregson, then held up a finger as his phone rang, showing Baxter’s caller ID.
“He’s here,” Baxter said, his voice strong with victory. “The son-of-a-bitch is right here in the goddamn building.”
Ryan met Gregson’s eyes, and the two men headed for the chief inspector’s car. “Hold him,” Ryan ordered. “I’m on my way.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“He’s here,” Baxter says into the phone, his voice strong with victory and his eyes wide with the thrill of the chase. “The son-of-a-bitch is right here in the goddamn building.” He listens, then nods. “Will do.” A beat, then he looks at me and nods. “Ryan’s on his way.”
“Thank goodness,” I say, sitting down at the polished table, my coffee mug warm in my hands.
“Who’s here?” Gabby asks. She’s leaning in the doorway, freshly showered and now in shorts and a tank top. I notice that Baxter is working very hard not to look in her direction. “Sorry I took forever. I needed a long, hot shower.”
I glance toward Baxter and lift my brows. “Some kinks to work out?”
Her mouth twitches. “A few,” she says, then breaks into a wide grin.
Baxter, who now has his back to me, turns. “What?” he asks, but I can only wave the question away as Gabby repeats, “Who’s here?”
“The son-of-a-bitch who drugged Jamie,” Bax says, meeting my eyes as a tremor cuts through me. I want him caught, but I don’t like the idea of being anywhere near that guy. And even the top floor of the hotel seems too close to the lobby.
“That’s great, right?” Gabby asks. “You can detain him and call the cops and then we figure out who he is.”
“And who he’s working for,” I say. “Although it’s got to be Carolyn Atkinson, right? Did Ryan say what happened at the townhouse?”
Baxter shakes his head. “But he’s on his way. He’ll fill us in when he gets here. In the meantime, hang on.” He scrolls through his phone where I know he’s getting constant text and voice updates from the hotel security team.
“Ryan’s with the chief inspector. A team is at the townhouse. Carolyn’s in custody. William is under medical care.” He looks up from the screen. “Now you’re updated.”
“I can’t believe this is almost over,” Gabby says. She has her own cup of coffee now, and she takes a long sip, then sighs.
“We grab the bastard,” Baxter says. “He’ll confirm that Carolyn hired him—or maybe blackmailed him—to drug Jamie and probably go after Gabby. And then we can wrap this up.”
“That would be amazing,” Gabby says. “But are we absolutely sure this is the guy? Because why would he come back?”
“He must not know that we have his picture or even that we’ve been looking for him. Which means we have the upper hand.” I look to Baxter. “Right?”
He nods, then moves to Gabby’s side. “And he damn sure doesn’t know that we’ve had multiple agents stationed at all of the monitors in the security room watching to see if he returned to the hotel.”
“But that still doesn’t explain why he’d come back at all,” she asks.
Baxter meets her eyes. “You heard what Meeks said about the will. They’re running out of time.”
“Oh, God.” The blood drains from her face. “Of course. He’s here for me.”
“He won’t get you.” I’m adamant.
“No,” Baxter agrees. “He won’t. He’s probably planning to watch the room. See when you leave to go shopping, down to the spa, whatever. Then he’ll make his move, grab you, and Bob’s your uncle.”
She actually laughs. “You don’t sound remotely British.”
He shrugs. “Which is why I work for her husband instead of making a living on the BBC.” He hooks a finger my direction, then smiles.
His phone pings, and he glances down, then back up again. “And it’s time.”
“Time?” I ask, then answer myself. “You have his location in the hotel and you’re going to go get him?”
“Already got him,” Baxter says. “Ryan pulled the trigger on the team intercepting
him when we started this conversation. Our mysterious infiltrator is waiting in Ryan’s office. Hang on.”
Gabby and I watch as he crosses the room to make a quick call. “They picked him up for loitering,” he says, returning. “Said some women complained that he was hitting on them, and we don’t believe he’s registered at the hotel.”
“That’s perfect,” I tell him.
“He’s locked up and Carolyn is in custody. Ryan’s on his way in. We should have this tied up with a bow within the hour.” He points to each of us in turn. “Stay put, though. I’m heading down to start talking with our guy.”
We agree, and as soon as he’s out the door, I flip the security lock. “I need a drink. You?”
“God, yes,” she says, then follows me to the bar.
I grab a package of chocolate chip cookies from the hotel’s welcome basket, noticing that Ryan left his personal phone beside it. I roll my eyes. He knows every minute of every day where his work phone is, but I find his personal one all over our house. He keeps telling me he’s going to combine both numbers on one device but hasn’t gotten around to it yet.
I toss Gabby the cookies, and she catches the package one handed. Then I pour us each a Scotch and follow her to the sofa where we each take a corner, both of us curling one leg up so that we probably look like bookends.
“So what now?” she asks.
“Ryan’s good at getting information,” I tell her. “He’ll drag it out of this dude, find out if anyone else is involved, and then nail Carolyn and anyone else’s ass to the wall. And somewhere in there they’ll get local law enforcement and the embassy involved, too, I’m sure.”
“Right. So, how long will that take?”
I shrug. “Fifteen minutes? An hour? More? It all depends on the willpower of the man in the chair.”
She shoots me a pained look, and I grimace. “I know. Waiting is the worst. Should we, I don’t know, watch a movie?”
Gabby laughs. A real, genuine, stress-relieving laugh. “That’s normal,” she says. “And right now, normal sounds very, very good.” She grabs the remote from the coffee table and clicks to one of the streaming services. We’re about twenty minutes into Pitch Perfect when my phone pings, and she pauses the film.