Montecito, the Present
Jesús Torres was done with the equipment in the basement. Marching back upstairs, he reached in his briefcase for Littlewood’s card. He would ask Littlewood to produce that proof of ownership they’d talked about, and failing that, he would have Littlewood place a sum not less than the value of the component parts into an escrow account, giving him twelve months to pony up some proof. That should satisfy his obligation to his former client.
As he glanced over Littlewood’s card, it occurred to Torres that Littlewood might know something about the trespassers. They’d looked to be college age, and both Littlewood and Khan had ties to universities.
But when Torres reached for his phone, he found it was dead. Completely dead. Walking to the kitchen island, he looked for an outlet for his charger. His phone was so dead it didn’t even fire up when he first plugged it in, which meant he couldn’t call Littlewood, check his e-mail, or do anything useful for five to ten minutes. Unless he used the landline. Time was money, and Torres wasn’t a man to waste either. He picked up the landline phone and dialed Littlewood’s cell number.
“Hello?”
“This is Jesús Torres. Listen, I’m over at the estate having a look at the equipment, and I wondered if you’d been able to find any documentation that would support your claim to the . . . Tesla device?”
“Oh. Um, I’m still looking. I found receipts detailing the value of the components. The total is around fifteen thousand.”
“Receipts aren’t the best sort of proof,” said Torres. “I’d like to see something more along the lines of an e-mail correspondence between you and Khan.”
“Right,” said Littlewood.
“On a different topic, there were some college-age kids here earlier, messing around in the basement.”
“Kids?”
“College age. Trespassing. I might’ve forgotten to lock the basement. You don’t know anything about any former students of Khan’s, do you? The kids wouldn’t say a damn thing without talking to their lawyer first. Which . . . That’s what I’d want my kids to do, but still . . .”
“Did you get their names?” asked Littlewood.
“Only one of them. And only because I overheard it. The boy called the girl Jillian. Does the name mean anything to you?”
Silence.
“Yes,” said Littlewood. “Let me check on a couple of things. She, ah . . . hmm. I think she might have known Dr. Khan. Do you mind if I check a few things and get back to you?”
“No problem,” said Torres. “I want to know if they had a reason to be here. Like I said, they weren’t talking, although . . . the two are obviously romantically involved. It may have been some kind of weird break-in fantasy thing. They were dressed . . . very strangely.”
“I see,” said Littlewood. “I’ll get back to you.”
“Okay. I gotta go.” Torres’s phone had just turned back on, and he had a screen full of notifications.
“Talk soon.”
Torres hung up and began reading e-mails. Nothing too unexpected, mostly replies from his paralegal. But then he saw probably the last thing he would have predicted—an e-mail purporting to have come from Jules Khan, not so deceased.
55
· LITTLEWOOD ·
Santa Barbara, the Present
Life had provided Littlewood with adequate proof he was terrible at reading people. From the loss of his first postdoc, Miranda Ching, to his recent “interview” of Jillian Applegate, he took what people said at face value rather than discerning what was going on at a deeper level. And who knew how badly he was misreading things with Khan in Florida. Life would be so much easier if people didn’t insist on hiding their true agendas.
But neither life nor people worked that way, which was why Littlewood was on his way to the Santa Barbara Police Department to speak to Jillian and her . . . accomplice. He should have known she was hiding things from him. He really should have known. Well, it was in her interest to tell him the truth now, if she wanted to avoid being booked for trespassing, vandalism, and who knew what else.
He suspected she was the sort of person who wouldn’t want that on her record. And so, upon arriving at the police department, Littlewood did something very unconventional, for him. He stated that he was there to speak with Jillian Applegate, and when the employee behind the desk asked if he was her lawyer, he told a lie. He said that yes, he was her lawyer.
Relieved when they didn’t demand proof, he was ushered into the holding cell containing the two very costumed individuals. Costumed individuals who’d been in Khan’s basement.
It didn’t take a great reader of people to figure this out.
“What are you doing here?” demanded Jillian. “You’re not my lawyer.”
“No,” replied Littlewood. “But I’m the person who can get you out of here if you tell me the truth about your involvement with the singularity device in Khan’s basement.”
Jillian crossed her arms over her chest and said nothing.
“Listen to me,” said Littlewood. “I invented the device.”
Jillian’s eyes widened.
“Khan stole information from me,” said Littlewood. “We both know you’ve been using the device in his basement or trying to use it or would use it if you could use it. You’re wearing costumes from the nineteenth century, for crying out loud.”
“Twentieth,” said the young man beside her.
Jillian turned swiftly to him. “Everett!”
“This gentleman,” said Everett, “claims he can get us out of jail. That sounds like a better offer than any we have received so far, wouldn’t you say?” Then the young man added, “There’s a whole world out there, and I confess I would like to be a part of it.”
Jillian seemed to waver. And then she spoke again, to Littlewood.
“I’ll tell you what I was doing in that basement if you tell me about your friendship with Jules Khan in Florida.”
Littlewood sat up a little straighter. “I wouldn’t go so far as to call him a friend.”
“Really?” Jillian asked dryly.
“He’s a kleptomaniac with a penchant for stealing things that belong to me,” Littlewood responded.
“Hmm.”
Jillian said nothing more for a full minute. Littlewood had the distinct impression that someone had taught this young woman a thing or two about reading people. Or about allowing them to yammer on nervously until they said something they hadn’t meant to say at all. He really hadn’t meant to say all that about Khan stealing his things.
“I knew a Jules Khan that sounds a lot like the one you know,” said Jillian. “But the one I knew died.”
Her eyes drifted away from his, and poor reader of people or not, Littlewood could tell she was considering letting him know something more. He clenched his hands. Waited. And then, Jillian Applegate did something remarkable. She told him the truth.
She told him she’d used the machine. She explained she’d read everything Khan had written on its use. She told him she and her friends had accidentally brought a person back from the sixteenth century, adding that she had figured out Littlewood had done something similar with Jules Khan. And then she paused and asked him a question.
“Did you bring Khan from the past on purpose?” she asked him.
“It was completely unintentional,” Littlewood said gloomily. He explained how it had happened, emphasizing that the man he worked with in Florida knew nothing of his alternate life and death in Montecito.
Jillian nodded and was silent. She seemed relieved.
“I’m going to ask you a question,” said Littlewood. “And I want you to only give me a yes or no in case . . . in case I need to maintain plausible deniability. Before I ask the question, I’m going to point out that if your neighbor provided you with keys to his estate, you couldn’t be charged with trespassing.”
“Stop right there,” said Jillian. She withdrew a necklace from under her costume. On it were two keys. “The keys to Khan
’s residence and basement. Will this get us off the hook?”
Littlewood smiled. “Yes.”
It was almost as if she didn’t want to be asked how she had acquired the keys. Well, he didn’t need to know. It was enough he could report to Torres that Jillian Applegate, Khan’s neighbor, had keys to his estate.
Littlewood ran his hands through his hair. Shook his head. She was clever, this one. And then, tilting his head to one side, he asked one last question.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t consider a major in physics?”
56
· JILLIAN ·
Santa Barbara, the Present
Jillian could hardly believe it. She and Everett were being released. Littlewood had been as good as his word, convincing Torres not to press charges. Although Jillian wasn’t party to the initial conversation between Littlewood and Torres, she assumed it had been her possession of the keys that had gotten them off.
Torres confirmed this when they were escorted from the holding cell and into the bright sunshine of a crisp December morning.
“It would have been a lot simpler if you’d explained you had the keys back when I first found you in the basement,” said Torres.
“I didn’t know it would make a difference,” Jillian said honestly.
Once they’d been released, Littlewood offered to drive them home.
Jillian, in the back seat with Everett, could tell it was all Everett could do to not ask questions about absolutely everything in the car. Or rather, the “automobile,” as he’d murmured when they’d climbed in. He was more than a little obsessed with the window once he discovered it could move up and down.
She gave him a quick shake of the head, and he stopped playing with the button.
She’d told Littlewood a lot, but she’d left out the part where she’d brought Everett back from 1903. She’d left out more than that, actually. She’d left out the part where she and her friends had buried Khan. Where he’d tried to kill Halley and Edmund. She wasn’t sure these were her secrets to share. And anyway, it was time for her to ask a few questions.
“Dr. Littlewood?” she said.
“Yes?”
“When we met yesterday, you told me you were looking at some equipment from Khan’s estate. Did you mean the time machine?”
“Yes.” He sounded a little gloomy.
Everett was now playing with a cup holder that could pop out and retract. He seemed puzzled as to its purpose. Jillian reached down for a discarded water bottle on the floor and set it in the cup holder. Everett’s grin of comprehension was electric, after which he became obsessed with examining the plastic water bottle.
Focus. She needed to focus on Littlewood.
“If you’re getting the machine, why don’t you sound more relieved?” she asked.
“I told Torres the equipment belonged to me, but he wanted documentation of my claim, which I can’t provide, so I’m going to have to place money in escrow if I want to take the machine.”
“Could you buy it outright? Wouldn’t your university want it?”
Littlewood seemed to hesitate. “The university doesn’t know about all this. I keep my research on time travel completely secret. I don’t mind paying to get the equipment back. I’m not risking it falling into anyone else’s hands.”
“How much does the lawyer want for the, um, escrow?” asked Jillian.
“I don’t know yet. I told him the parts were worth fifteen thousand.”
“Wow,” said Jillian.
“It’s cheap compared to plenty of physics research equipment. Cheap because I built it myself. Well, the original one.”
“Dr. Littlewood,” she said softly as they pulled up to the front of her house, “would you be willing to stay and talk?”
She still wasn’t sure what she wanted to reveal and what she wanted to hide, but it was a huge relief when he said, yes, he would stay.
At that point, Halley, Edmund, and DaVinci came bursting out the front door, which made Jillian wonder how they were going to take the news she’d told Littlewood so much. She swallowed nervously.
But before Jillian could say anything, DaVinci spoke.
“Um, Jillian? Who’s the dude with the bedroom eyes?”
Oh. How could she have forgotten they didn’t know about Everett?
57
· LITTLEWOOD ·
Montecito, the Present
Littlewood didn’t mind being shuffled off to the sincerely magnificent library inside the Applegate estate. There’d been some little confusion about Everett’s unexpected appearance, and Littlewood was happy to let the young people have some private time because, well, he wanted some private time, too.
Torres had made a very strange remark as they’d all parted at the SBPD. Littlewood couldn’t be sure Jillian hadn’t heard it, but she hadn’t brought it up, so she must not have heard . . .
Not that he was going to be able to keep it secret much longer, if it was true. Torres’s remark had been regarding a meeting with someone who said they had a claim to Khan’s estate. Which was terrible news. But it also lit a fire under Littlewood’s behind. If someone had a claim to the estate, he had to settle the matter of the singularity device. He wished he hadn’t named the price of fifteen thousand. He’d named the most he could afford.
He never should have given a figure. He was a terrible negotiator.
He dialed Torres’s number.
The phone rang and went immediately to voice mail. Frowning, Littlewood hit “End.” What sort of message was he prepared to leave? Not I’ll pay whatever you want, but I only have fifteen thousand. And not Give me a call, would you?, which didn’t quite convey the urgency of the situation. Composing his thoughts, Littlewood dialed the number again. This time Torres picked up.
“Torres.”
“Oh. Hello.” Littlewood’s heart began to pound in his chest.
“And this is?”
“Sorry. Littlewood. Arthur Littlewood. I wanted to speak about, well, about purchasing my property after all. Since I can’t substantiate my claim with any documentation.”
“I see.”
“Will the, ah, fifteen thousand we talked about be sufficient?” Littlewood squeezed his eyes tightly shut, wishing, hoping . . .
“Actually, in an hour, I’m meeting with the person we spoke of.”
“Who says he has a claim to Khan’s estate?” asked Littlewood. “To be honest, I didn’t know Khan had any heirs.”
“The man I’m meeting with isn’t claiming he’s an heir. He claims to be Jules Khan, actually.”
“What?”
Littlewood’s mind was already three thousand miles away. That bastard. It had to be his Jules Khan, the man from 2001, who was making the claim. How had he found out about the estate? Suddenly Littlewood had a terrible feeling. He shouldn’t have put off returning Khan’s numerous calls. But he had. And now he would have to clean up the mess.
Steeling himself, he replied to Torres. “That’s impossible.”
“It ought to be. He says he’s been on an extended health retreat out of the country. Listen, I’m on my way to meet him now. The good news is, you may be able to pick up your equipment later today. Always assuming he concurs with your claim that you are the owner of the property in question.”
“Of course,” murmured Littlewood. “Did he . . . did the man making the claim sound like Jules Khan?”
Torres made a gruff sort of noise. “I wouldn’t be sticking around here if he didn’t.”
“Keep me in the loop, okay?”
“Will do.”
After the call finished, Littlewood placed another call, but he wasn’t really surprised when Khan refused to pick up. His resultant cursing was swallowed up by the thick carpets and books lining the library surfaces.
58
· JILLIAN ·
Montecito, the Present
Jillian led Everett and her friends back to her suite of rooms, which was at the opposite end of the house from the library. Bran
son had agreed to stay near the library to forestall any wandering Littlewood might be inclined to pursue.
“I can’t believe you,” DaVinci said as soon as Jillian closed her door.
Ignoring the remark, Jillian took Everett’s hand. She was trembling slightly. Everett was not. He gripped her hand more tightly and smiled encouragingly at her.
She took a deep breath. “Everyone, this is Everett Randolph. He came here from 1903.”
Halley inhaled sharply and covered her mouth with one hand. DaVinci rolled her eyes. Edmund grinned, crossed to Everett, and held out his hand.
“Welcome,” said Edmund. “Edmund Aldwych, originally from 1598. Your servant.”
The two shook hands.
“I seriously cannot believe this,” said DaVinci.
Jillian took a breath to defend herself, but DaVinci kept talking.
“I mean, it’s totally what I would have advised, but you’re totally not me, and I can’t even . . .” She shook her head, having run out of things to say.
“She didn’t make the decision,” said Everett. “I did.” His eyes flashed as the morning sun shot through a window, striking his face.
“You decided to come here with Jillian?” asked Halley softly.
Jillian and Everett exchanged glances.
“I didn’t tell him what would happen,” said Jillian.
“I reached for her as she was departing,” Everett said.
Jillian’s cheeks warmed with color as she remembered the “reaching.”
“But I would have asked to come if she’d told me,” Everett added.
“Okay, then. Welcome to Santa Barbara,” said DaVinci. “Next question: Why did Branson take your Uber driver or whoever to hang out in the library?”
“That’s not an Uber driver,” said Jillian, swallowing. “It’s Dr. Arthur Littlewood. And we all need to discuss some things with him. Littlewood invented the time machine. He is a former and, um, current associate of Jules Khan.”
“Khan’s dead,” snapped DaVinci. “Past tense, please. Ugh!”
“He’s not as dead as we might like,” Jillian said.
By the time Jillian had finished explaining what she knew, Halley looked very worried.
A Flight in Time (Thief in Time Series Book 2) Page 22