by Tara Lain
Octavia Otto stood. “Dr. Lewis, you saved my son’s life. Anything I can do to repay you, I will.”
Llewellyn nodded. “I appreciate t-that.”
She stared at him and shook her head. “Now that I’ve met you, I realize there’s no chance you could be Rondell anyway.” She winked. “So it won’t be hard to keep that promise.” She turned. “Holiday, I assume the charges against Blaise will be dropped and we’re free to go. I also assume that this will not be reflected in any sort of police record.”
“There’s some paperwork, but yes.” Holiday glanced at the formidable lawyers as they all rose and left the room. Blaise looked back at Llewellyn before his mother grabbed his arm and they were gone.
Jane wiped tears from her face. “I just can’t believe this all happened.”
Roscoe wheeled away from the table. “So, Lewis, you’re giving up this craziness, right?”
“Y-yes, and I hope there’s a way to b-break the will and for you and your sister to get the money. It’s v-very unlikely anyone c-can prove Edward de Vere was Shakespeare.” He smiled. “Dammit.”
Roscoe smiled for a second, and then the frown returned. “Of course, we’ll probably have to spend all of it on lawyers for my sister.” He shook his head. “I think we need to get her some treatment.” Jane wheeled him out the door, still wiping her cheeks.
Maria whispered, “Hey, boss, you just did some pretty fancy talking in front of a whole room full of people.”
He smiled. “M-must have been ch-channeling Ramon Rondell.”
LLEWELLYN WALKED off the elevator in the lobby.
Maria pointed toward the side door where she’d picked him up on the day Blaise had been arrested. As they hurried toward the exit, Maria bounced in front of him. “You did it, boss. You’re amazing. You don’t just solve history’s mysteries, you solve the regular kind of mystery too. That’s so cool. You could hang out a new shingle, Llewellyn Lewis, PhD, Crime Solver. Can I still be your assistant?”
“You c-can be my assistant as long as y-you want, but I think we’ll stick to history.”
“Anything you say, boss.” She pushed open the door, and Llewellyn followed. A few steps later, she stopped.
For a second the bright sun blinded him; then he looked toward the car and saw what Maria had seen. Blaise Arthur leaned against Llewellyn’s Volvo.
“Hey, boss, I’ll get another ride.”
“N-no. Please wait f-for me.”
“Okay, I’ll be right inside. But call me if I need to hail a cab.” She grinned and turned back into the building.
Llewellyn stared at Blaise. Don’t want to do this. Just want to go home, close the door, and hide. He strode across the parking lot and stopped in front of the person who had literally tilted his world on its axis and eclipsed the sun so Llewellyn would always live in darkness without the Blaise of sunlight. He released a slow breath. Things are going to get very gray.
“Hi.”
“H-hi.”
“You’re pretty astonishing. You know that? You saved my life.”
Llewellyn shook his head. “S-someone would have realized it s-soon.”
“No. Not a chance. No cop would ever have questioned that woman’s identity enough to take her fingerprints. Hell, they may not even know that identical twins don’t have the same prints. I didn’t.”
Llewellyn shrugged and stared at his shoes.
Blaise let out a long, slow exhale. “You don’t want to forgive me, do you?”
He didn’t look up. Too dangerous. “I can say I f-forgive you. Th-that’s the easy part. But every time I remember s-some sweet m-moment with y-you, it’s f-followed by an equal and opposite b-betrayal.” He shrugged. “It’s hard to f-forget you had s-so many chances to tell the truth.”
Blaise took a turn staring at his shoes. “You’re right, of course.” He inhaled, long and painfully. “You don’t want to see me anymore.” It wasn’t a question.
“There’s n-no point. You live in S-San Francisco.” His eyes skittered to the bushes across the lot.
“I want to stay here.”
“You’re a rich man with a b-big future.”
“My mother’s rich. Not me.” It was a wail.
Llewellyn shook his head. “It w-wouldn’t work.”
Blaise stepped closer, and Llewellyn stepped back. Blaise said, “But you were ready to make it work before you knew.” The sound of his voice had changed to discouragement and acceptance.
Good. Acceptance was a good step. “M-maybe I w-was. Before.” A horn blasted from somewhere on the street, and Llewellyn looked up, noticing the limousine for the first time. “They’re w-waiting for y-you.” He turned and walked back into the building, where Maria stood with her nose pressed to the glass.
She looked up at him as he stepped inside with eyes full of compassion. “Boss, you don’t want to do this.”
He felt himself frown. She couldn’t have heard the conversation from inside. “What?”
“Look, I know he did some plain awful stuff, but I see something that I’ve never seen before.”
“What?”
“He makes you happy. Hell, I’d like to throw him under a bus, but I might never see that look of joy in your eyes that happens when you say his name. You moved heaven and earth to save him. In some cultures that makes you responsible for him.”
“N-not in this one.” He looked up, and no beautiful Blaise stood beside his old car anymore. No beautiful Blaise would be anywhere in his life anymore. Amazing how much that hurt. He thought in his life he’d mastered pain, sucked it in, turned it into all his complex neuroses, and never had to feel it again. Surprise.
Maria took his arm. “Come on, let’s get you home.”
“N-no. Back to w-work.” The definition of his life.
Chapter Twenty-Two
WHEN THEY got to the office, Van Pelt waited impatiently outside the door. Right, because he didn’t have a key—because Anne de Vere had stolen it.
He put his hands on his hips as they approached. “What the hell is going on?”
Llewellyn started to speak, but Maria answered, “Come in and have some coffee, sir. It’s been a tough few hours.”
After caffeine had been dispensed and the story told, Van Pelt just sat there. “This is unbelievable.”
Maria nodded, having taken the stress off Llewellyn by doing most of the talking. “Yes. I don’t think anyone but Dr. Lewis could ever have figured the whole thing out. Honestly, it was like the end of a mystery novel or something.”
Van Pelt sighed. “So the research project is gone.”
“Y-yes. I would h-have continued if the document had been real, but it seems unlikely n-now.”
“So it wasn’t real after all?”
“N-no. Anne m-must have gone to g-great trouble to f-fake it.”
“What a shame.” He must have realized what he said, because he shook himself a little. “What a shame that one woman died and another is going to prison over such a silly thing.”
“Y-yes.” He smiled slightly. “B-but you have the Echevarrias. They want to d-donate to the school.”
His face brightened. “That’s true, they do. I’ll call them now.” He stood, set down his coffee cup on Maria’s desk, and walked to the door, then turned. “So Blaise Arthur is free. Innocent.”
“Y-yes.” Maybe only a little innocent.
“They said he was some kind of reporter or something, right?”
Maria burst in. “Yes, for an online magazine. His mother owns it, among other things.”
“Always thought that boy was a bit flashy for an English teacher.” He cocked his head. “But what was he doing here?”
“Uh, we’re not sure. His media outlet is in San Francisco. Maybe they caught wind of Anne de Vere’s obsession and he followed her here.” Maria glanced at Llewellyn, who sipped his tea. “You remember they arrived at pretty much the same time.”
“Right. Interesting. And then he goes and gets himself arrested.” He
shook his head. “Those damned journalists deserve to get some retribution for their strong-arm tactics. Hate to say it serves him right since he could have gone to prison for a long time, but still—” He harrumphed. “Well, good work, Dr. Lewis.” He raised his brows. “I expect this little crime-solving jaunt will be one more feather in your cap as a solver of mysteries.” A smile spread slowly across his face like light was dawning. “Yes, yes, I’ll bet it does enhance the reputation—of all of us.” Chuckling, he walked out the door.
DEAR GOD, can this day be over?
Llewellyn opened the door to his home and knelt automatically to greet the fuzzies. As Marie Antoinette pushed against his hand, he felt a shiver up his back and looked over his shoulder. Nobody. Nothing. The day had freaked him out. Killing your own twin. Truly horrible. So much sadness for so many reasons.
“Merwaowr.”
“Mew.”
“Meeow.”
“Okay, you g-get a whole evening of undivided attention. I’m s-sorry I’ve been gone so much.” He scooped up Marie in his arms, snuggled her, and kicked the door closed with his foot. “Come on. F-food time.”
In the kitchen, he set Marie on the chair and pulled out all their favorites, including Marie’s chicken and Emily’s tuna. Julius ate anything. Carefully, he spooned the chicken in Marie’s bowl, since she had to be served first.
Odd. Is there something wrong with the chicken? He sniffed closer. Kind of an acrid smell. He heard Marie growling at the same moment he realized the smell was coming from behind him—and then was pressed over his nose and mouth.
He gagged and thrashed backward with his right arm while grasping for the knives on the counter with his left, but the cloth suffocating him didn’t release.
For a second he wondered if Anne had escaped—before everything went black.
BLAISE DROVE toward Llewellyn’s house, his brain seething. He has to listen to me. This is stupid.
He’d left his mother gaping after him in her car as he announced he wasn’t going back to San Francisco and he didn’t care if she cut him off from everything. He was staying in San Luis Obispo until Llewellyn agreed to at least give their relationship a chance. Hopefully that meant Blaise would be staying in San Luis forever.
An old black pickup truck raced by Blaise as he neared Llewellyn’s house. Not the usual type of vehicle for that gentrified neighborhood. He pulled up in front.
What the fuck?
The door stood agape, and Marie peered from the top step of the porch.
Without even turning off the car, he leaped out, ran across the lawn, grabbed Marie—she must have known it was a crisis because she let him do it—stuck his head in the house, and screamed, “Llewellyn!”
Nothing.
“Llewellyn!”
He tossed Marie ignominiously into the entry, slammed the front door, and was back in the car in seconds. What the hell? His foot stomped the accelerator so hard, the car actually leaped forward, laid rubber, and took off like a careening banshee. The truck. The truck.
Please, please let the light at the intersection be red. Please. He had a bad-assed feeling about that truck.
The light in front of him as he powered down the street shone brilliant green, but he saw the black truck turning left. Yes. Do I dare call? Hell, yes. Pressing his Siri button, he said, “Call Detective Holiday.”
“Calling Detective Holiday.” It started to ring.
“Holiday.” He sounded grumpy.
“Holiday, this is Blaise Arthur. I just arrived at Dr. Lewis’s house to see a black pickup truck racing away. Llewellyn’s door was standing open, and he’s not there. I’m afraid something’s happened.”
“Like what?”
“He’s been kidnapped. Abducted.”
“How do you know that? Maybe he went for milk and those damned felines decided to visit the neighbors.”
“I don’t know how I know. I just know.” Blaise’s foot pressed the accelerator.
“Are you sure you’re not addicted to law enforcement? Because I know a good police academy you can apply to.”
“Dammit, Holiday, this isn’t a joke.”
“Okay, where are you?”
“I’m chasing the black truck.”
“What the hell? You are not.”
“Yes, I am. Wait.” The truck stopped at the next light. Blaise sped up to get behind it, cutting off a Mercedes that tried to get into the lane. He got a huge honk for his trouble.
Holiday growled, “What was that?”
“Doesn’t matter. Pay attention. Write this down.” He recited the license number.
“You’re serious about this.”
“As a heart attack, man. Do something.”
“Do not hang up. I want to know what’s going on.”
“Get some cops out here fast.” He read the street names at the intersection. “But we’re moving fast, so tell them to hurry. I don’t think he knows I’m following him.”
“Okay, stay back. I’ll have a squad car there in a few minutes.”
“Where ‘there’ is changes pretty fast.”
The truck signaled a right turn. A large gas sign stood at the corner.
“Wait. I think he’s pulling into a goddamn gas station. What kind of idiot kidnaps someone without enough gas in their fucking vehicle?”
“Stay away, Blaise. Just drive by and let us take care of this.”
“Yeah, right.” Holiday probably caught the sarcasm. Blaise drove by the station and turned right. There was another entrance from the perpendicular street, and he took it, ending up on the side of the station where the restrooms were located. He pulled over and stopped in a couple of spaces probably designated for those who needed the john. Quickly he searched his glove compartment and found a flashlight, the closest thing to a weapon he could find. He tucked it in his waistband and slid out of the car.
Walking softly, he moved up the side of the building and started to peek around just as a cute, dark-haired guy came around the corner, moving fast. Something about his wild, weird eyes and furtive expression suggested he might be the guy Blaise was looking for. For a second, Blaise froze.
The guy said “Excuse me” as they nearly collided, and then he trotted toward the men’s room. Seriously, the guy got the runs in the middle of his crime?
Wait. I’ve seen him before. Where? Blaise kept walking like he had business there, and he did. Finding Llewellyn.
The desires to both hurry and not look suspicious warred in him. Trying to appear natural, he walked over to the pumps where the black pickup was connected to a gas hose. For a second Blaise looked at the pump next to it, like he was trying to figure it out; then he turned and stared into the truck’s windows. The badly applied dark tint blocked out most visibility, but he pressed close and peered into the tiny back seat. His heart leaped in his throat. Llewellyn lay folded like a broken doll, unconscious.
Blaise’s hands gripped into fists. If the bastard hurt him, he’s dead.
Blaise tried the door handle on the driver’s side. Locked. He circled the truck and tried the other side, but he wasn’t surprised to find it shut tight. Shit. His stomach ground into a huge knot of anger, pain, and fear.
A small trash can full of dirty windshield wipes stood beside the gas pump. Blaise slipped around the front of the truck and grabbed it.
As he raised it over his head, a woman in a minivan beside the truck yelled, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Think fast. “There’s a guy in there. He looks really sick or maybe even dead, and the driver of the truck is in the head.” He nodded toward the window. “Look for yourself.”
She ran to the windows on the other side of the truck as Blaise smashed the trash can into the driver’s side window as hard as he could. The damned thing cracked but didn’t break.
The woman yelled, “Oh my God. We’ve got to get him out of there.”
Blaise called back, “Find me something sharp and metal.” He smashed against the window
again. Damned safety glass.
The woman ran for the building where they sold a few snacks and soft drinks. Not much hope. No mechanics in there. Blaise smashed the window again. Llewellyn hadn’t even moved, and Blaise didn’t want to think what that meant.
The cracks in the window looked like a spiderweb, and pieces of glass fell out of the pattern, but the window didn’t collapse enough to let him reach inside. He pulled out the flashlight for one more huge smash, and the window finally gave way enough to leave a hole.
Thank God. Carefully he reached inside and flipped the lock. In a flash he pulled open the door. “Llewellyn. Can you hear me?” He folded back the seat and crawled toward Llewellyn’s so still body.
“Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing? That’s my truck. Get the hell away from there.”
Blaise looked up as sirens filled the air. Running toward him was the black-haired guy. Oh my God, I saw him at that gay club in San Jose.
The sirens got closer but weren’t there yet. The guy ran toward him, and Blaise didn’t even decide. He took two steps forward and slammed his fist, complete with flashlight, into the man’s belly and, as the dude folded over, hit him again in the jaw.
“Ooof, ow.”
Blaise bared his teeth and shook his hand. Damn, that hurt. He hadn’t hit a lot of people in his life.
The woman from the minivan ran past Blaise to the other side of the car with another woman who was apparently the cashier. They tore open the door. “Hey, mister, are you okay?” As they crawled into the back seat, Blaise started toward them.
An arm circled his neck and the edge of a blade pressed against his throat. “Don’t move or I’ll kill you.”
Blaise hissed, “Have you lost your mind?”
“I’m serious.”
“The cops are almost here. If I were you, I’d be running for the hills.”
Blaise could feel the indecision pumping through the man’s body.