Penalty Kill

by Genevive Chamblee

  He opened the door to two striking men who looked familiar, but he couldn’t place them immediately.

  “We’re looking for Timothée,” the brunette with the stubble explained.

  “Aidan?” Lesley asked.

  Ah, of course. Aidan Lefèvre, Timothée’s former Owls teammate. He looked different out of uniform.

  Ryker glanced at the stylish blond beside him and recognized him as Christophe Fortenot, captain of the Saint Anne Civets.

  “Bonjour, Lesley,” Aidan greeted. “We were waiting in the lobby and never saw Timothée come down. Thought maybe we’d missed him.”

  “No. He locked himself in the bedroom,” she begrudgingly admitted.

  “He did wh…?” Aidan compressed his lips, stepped around Ryker, and marched to the bedroom door. Rap, rap, rap. “C’est Aidan.”

  Click. The door opened, and Aidan stepped inside.

  He must be kidding me.

  Speechless, Ryker looked at Christophe, who had now moved into the suite. Christophe shrugged and smiled as if he knew a secret.

  Moments later, the door opened and Aidan emerged with Timothée—dressed in the navy suit sans the lime shoes. He did, however, pair the suit with a candy-apple-red vest adorned with gold buttons and a plaid indigo acrylic gold mirror with twilling patchwork necktie.

  Timothée

  “This way,” the funeral director stated more to Ryker than any other member of the group. “The family may spend time alone to inspect and say final goodbyes to the deceased before the service begins.”

  The foursome—Timothée beside Aidan with Ryker and Christophe trailing—walked the short distance from the foyer to the viewing room. Timothée stared at the gleaming cherry casket from the middle of the aisle. His feet would take him no farther. His mother was in that box. Cold. Unmoving. Dead.

  “No.” Timothée shot Ryker a why-have-you-brought-me-here glare. They’d agreed on entombment and service at the two-crypt walk-in mausoleum. Well, Ryker had agreed to it. Timothée had only signed the purchasing papers Ryker had slid across a table after Ryker had nixed his suggestion of an outside storage shed.

  “You need this,” Ryker insisted.

  Feet firmly planted, Timothée shook his head, gritting his teeth. “No.”

  Cupping the back of his biceps, Aidan nudged him. “Allons.”

  Without further argument or hesitation, Timothée slowly moved forward, stopping a few feet from the casket.

  “Open it,” Aidan instructed the director.

  “Oh God, no!” Timothée protested, attempting to step backward.

  “Chasseur,” Aidan said gently and held him steady. “Open it,” he repeated to the director.

  The director nervously glanced between Timothée and Aidan. “Are you certain?”

  “Oui,” Aidan replied.

  “Half or full couch, sir?”

  “Full,” Aidan stated.

  The director stalled for a moment and then opened the casket.

  Timothée stiffened, his mouth as dry as if he’d ingested sand, and turned his head, squeezing his eyes tight. He couldn’t look at her. But Aidan squeezed his arm in support.

  “Tu vas t’en,” Aidan soothed. “La regarde même.”

  Timothée doubted he would be okay as his friend urged but gradually turned to the casket with the intention of seeing his mother’s face in a state of peace for the last time. Instead, the angry stitches across her temple jumped out at him. The mortician had done a decent job to obscure them with her hair, but Timothée spotted them instantly. His knees buckled. This was what they’d done to her.

  “Mama,” he whispered, tears streaming down his face that had grown pale. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  He couldn’t control the anguished screams that erupted from him next and filled the room.

  Ryker watched him.

  “What are we doing here?” Timothée asked, turning from staring out the limousine window to the winding driveway leading to his family home.

  “I arranged for the repast to be here,” Ryker answered.

  “The… what?”

  “The funeral reception.”

  Timothée frowned. “Who told you to do that?”

  Ryker sucked in a deep breath.” I kept asking, and you never answered. A decision had to be made. The police said they’ve gathered all the forensics they need, and I had a bioremediation company professionally clean and sanitize everything. All the same, I’ve had those rooms locked. It just made sense to do it here.”

  As Timothée posed to argue, his eyes snagged on Aidan’s hand atop Christophe’s, his thumb intimately moving in circles. His gaze followed the hand up the arm to Aidan’s face. He quirked a brow. Aidan responded by darting his glare at Ryker to Timothée to Ryker and back again. Then his own eyebrow hiked in an unspoken accusation.

  Well, doesn’t this beat all I’ve stepped in?

  The car rolled to a stop.

  “People are going to want to see you,” Ryker continued.

  “Well, I don’t want to see them.” Being in the cemetery with a crowd had fulfilled his people quota for the day.

  “It’s polite etiquette.”

  “I don’t owe those people anything. I’m not going.”

  Aidan grunted, leaned forward, and opened the door. “Well, I’m going.” He jerked his head, signaling Timothée to follow.

  Without further argument or consideration, Timothée climbed out behind Aidan.

  Ryker

  Ryker stood on the patio and overlooked the garden at the base of the hill. There were no blooms but plenty of greenery provided by Japanese spurges, English ivy, and creeping junipers. In the middle of the garden, Timothée sat with Aidan on a cement bench beneath a pergola away from all other guests. He’d parked himself there since their arrival.

  “Yin and yang.”

  Ryker startled at the voice and turned to find Christophe beside him nursing a sweet tea. “What?” Ryker inquired.

  “You’re wondering why they can sit together for hours not talking yet speak volumes.” He smiled. “You’ve nothing to worry about. They’re just friends.”

  “I never said—”

  “You didn’t have to. I’m not blind to the way you look at Timothée.”

  “And how is that?” Ryker asked defensively, alarmed.

  “Protective. Possessive. You care about him.”

  “I’m his agent.”

  Christophe shrugged. “We both know it’s far more than that. My guess is you’ve had a trampoline party with him a time or two.” He waved his hand at Ryker’s predicted rebuttal. “Let me shorten the learning curve for you. It took me a while to get it, too.” He pulled his phone from his suit coat pocket and tapped at the screen. After a few seconds, a video popped up. “Three years ago. Owls versus Wolves.”

  “Two on two and jammed up in the corner with Croneau, Doucet, Simmons, and Lefèvre fighting over the puck. Looks like a game of kick-the-can happening. Puck loose and Simmons gains control. He feeds it across to his winger, Thad Clark. Clark is walled by Lefèvre, who steals the puck and races it down the ice. Checked by Simmons. Gagon now with the puck for the Wolves, and he’s heading toward— Oh, stolen by Croneau, and Croneau is running track. He shoots. The shot goes wide, and big hit by Gagon on Croneau. Lefèvre quickly rebounds it, and it’s right into the breadbasket of the crouching netminder. The puck, taking a strange bounce off Pittman’s leg pad, is gathered by Nowak. Nowak trying to set up a shot. Pass to Lefèvre. Lefèvre in front of the goal with a lot of traffic ahead of him, draws back for the shot. No! Fake! Croneau sweeping across and shooting from the corner. Score! What a beautiful play. No one saw that coming.”

  The video ended.

  Okay, that was impressive, but…. Ryker looked up at Christophe.

  “Did you notice when Aidan drew his stick, he never checked to see where Timothée was?”

  No. Ryker hadn’t paid it any attention. “I’m sure they practiced it.”

  Christo
phe gave a half nod. “True, but most likely it’s because Aidan already knew where Timothée was. They knew each other’s every position their entire time on the ice before they even made them. Aidan trusted Timothée to pick up that puck and dump it in. And he didn’t mind giving Timothée the glory of the goal. That’s a bond. They’ve moved beyond words.”

  “So, what are you saying? Only players can make that type of bond?”

  “No. But has Timothée asked you to do something and you hesitated or flinched, even if only for a second?”

  Ryker thought back to the massage parlor and sandbar.

  “Have you ever asked him to change any part of who he is that dulls his over-the-top personality?”

  Ryker’s thoughts drifted to disagreements on clothing and guns.

  “Aidan has the leading assists in the league. He’s there when needed, silently awaiting as setup or backup.” Christophe continued, “He does it without question, without wanting anything in return. That’s also how he is in friendship. So Timothée knows he can be as unorthodox as he wants, and Aidan undoubtedly, without question, has his back. And that’s why they can sit there in silence.”

  “And you do this silence with Aidan?”

  “Hell no. Aidan knows if he doesn’t talk to me, I’ll stomp a mudhole in his ass, yeet him across the room, and ram his dirty sweat socks up his nostrils.” Christophe flashed his signature grin. “Aidan crawls up inside his head too much. I put twelve pure cane sugars and four gallons of whole dairy creamer in my coffee. My nerves are too jittery for me to be waiting around until he decides to open up. Trying to get something out of Aidan is like gouging in your butt with a wire coat hanger.”

  Oh. Ew. Ouch. Ryker choked on air. That was a visual he could have lived without.

  “But you just said—”

  “Were you not paying attention to Timothée’s first shot? There was no way that wasn’t going wide. If he’d held on to it and moved it out, he would have avoided that hit. Instead, he left himself vulnerable, knowing Aidan would go for the rebound. Aidan knows he can be vulnerable in front of me and I’ll have his back the same way Timothée does. You need to enable Timothée to see the same in you.”

  “I try, but he still shuts me out, which leads me to believe I’m not important to him. I can’t fathom starting anything with someone who feels that way.”

  “Did I mention how stubborn and in denial Aidan can be? He’s king bitch.”

  Ryker laughed. “You didn’t, but I can imagine.”

  “Timothée will come around—granted, probably after having done something so asinine that makes absolutely no sense regardless of how many atoms are split. But he’ll get there after he gets tired of boxing with himself.”

  Yes, but how long will that take?

  “Mr. Kitsch?”

  Ryker turned to face a stocky man with a handlebar mustache. “Yes?”

  “My name is Detective Wilscot Doyle. I’m in charge of the Lauders investigation. It’s my understanding that Mr. Croneau is under the advisement of legal counsel.”

  “Yes, he is, but I’m not him. That would be Mace Gardner.”

  The detective nodded. “I’m aware of that. I’ve been unable to get in contact with Mr. Gardner. I thought I’d be able to speak with him today but have been informed I’ve just missed him. I’m told you’re Mr. Croneau’s representative.”

  “I’m his sports agent.”

  “We’ve been instructed to contact Mr. Croneau only through Mr. Gardner regarding any matter. Since that hasn’t been successful, I’m asking you to inform Mr. Croneau that I’d like for him to come to the station and answer some questions.”

  “Is he under arrest?”

  “It’s a standard interview.” The detective shifted. “Frankly, in these types of cases, the family is cooperative with police without a need for counsel.”

  Ryker folded his arms across his chest. “He isn’t being uncooperative. Mr. Croneau is a public figure. His having counsel has nothing to do with an unwillingness to be forthcoming with police. He has business obligations and endeavors that are not pertinent to any information police need to know, and counsel is there to advise him of any breech of confidential communications or contractual agreements. It’s also to ensure that any statements he makes are not misquoted and later leaked to media sources.”

  “Why would the police do that?”

  “People sell false stories all the time, Detective. Let’s not pretend that isn’t factual.”

  “Not all police are corrupt as you’re suggesting.”

  “The intention may not be corrupt. Perhaps leaking a false story may smoke out the real murderer, but at whose expense? Your job is to solve a crime no matter who’s affected in the process or how. Once you have, you’re done and on to the next case. Mr. Croneau will live with this reality for the rest of his life.” Ryker took a breath to suppress his growing irritation. “The police not declaring he’s officially been ruled out as a suspect is equally as negative as calling him one. If you haven’t noticed, the media aren’t being kind to him. Each day this drags out with no arrests and no suspects, the worse it is for him—not only businesswise but emotionally. And might I also add how insensitive and disrespectful it is for you to show up here at this time. His parents’ funeral ended less than two hours ago. So I ask you, who serves his best interest?” The vein in Ryker’s temple pulsed. “I’ll see to it that he receives your message.”

  Detective Doyle’s face hardened. “See that he does.” He spun on his heels and crossed the patio to the gate leading to the exit.

  “Nicely stated,” Christophe said.

  “It’s my job.”

  20

  Timothée

  “Mr. Croneau,” Detective Doyle stated, “after Javahn’s bachelor party—”

  “I told you. I went home.”

  “How did you get there?”

  “I answered that, too.” Timothée linked his fingers behind his back as he strolled the borders of the room and studied the wall artwork as if seeing it for the first time—well, most of it anyway. The Honoré Daumier lithograph was new, or at least new to him. It hadn’t been in the collection the last time he’d been in this room. And now since he was the owner of the house and everything in it, it wouldn’t be staying. He frowned at the grotesque figure sprawled drunkenly on a nineteenth-century empire sofa. It stood out among the soft oil paintings surrounding it. It didn’t belong in this house, just like the person who’d brought it into the home hadn’t belonged. No doubt this was a purchase made by Luca. Timothée couldn’t stand to look at it; however, he couldn’t stomach sitting across the table from Detective whatever his name was—not to mention it made his skin itch. Same questions, same answers. Nothing would change.

  The only two things that made any of this tolerable were knowing the detective was equally unhappy about holding the interview at Belle Lagé and having agreed to it because Mace insisted any questioning be conducted out of the public eye and far away from a police station, and two, that Ryker had stuck around. Timothée sensed this decision hadn’t pleased the detective, either. However, what pleased and didn’t please the detective held no real estate in Timothée’s head. Ryker’s presence made Timothée more comfortable. Unfortunately, not long after they’d all gotten situated in the room, Ryker left to take a phone call and hadn’t returned.

  “Did you drive yourself?”

  “No, I was pretty lit.”

  “You have a hired driver. Did he take you?”

  “He had the night off.”

  “Did you call an Uber?”

  “Only the Lord knows, and he ain’t telling. I haven’t seen any charges.”

  “Did someone else call for you?”

  “Detective, my client has explained several times that he does not know who drove him home,” Mace cut in. “Asking him repeatedly will not change his recollection.”

  “What time did you leave the party?” asked Doyle.

  “It was dark out… I thi
nk.” He pivoted to face the others. “I don’t know. I had a couple old-fashioneds and at least four beers with Tears of Llorona No. 3 Extra Añejo chasers.”

  The detective cocked his head. “You remember what you drank and how much but not when you left or how you arrived home?” he asked accusingly.

  True. Timothée shrugged. But premium tequilas are worth remembering.

  Mace tapped his Meisterstück fountain pen on the walnut table with satinwood inlays. “I don’t appreciate your tone. Is Mr. Croneau a suspect now?”

  “I’m attempting to establish his whereabouts and timeline.”

  “Again, Mr. Croneau has provided those answers. If all we’re going to do here is rehash what my client has already told you, then he has nothing more to say.”

  “Mr. Gardner—”

  “No, Detective,” Mace interrupted. “I will not allow you to interrogate him or attempt to intimidate him into making speculations so the truth is mangled into some unrecognizable form to be tossed back at him later. I’ll remind you, Mr. Croneau agreed to this interview as a courtesy. I suggest if you want this conversation to continue that you move on to something else.”

  Timothée stopped at a floor-to-ceiling window and smiled inwardly. He knew there had been a reason he’d connected with Mace Gardner the moment he’d talked to him. Mace was what Jacqueline Lauder would have called “their kind of people” and a person she would have invited over for bruschetta and Candoni Pinot Grigio—her favorite to have served for brunch. Mace’s father had been a federal judge, his mother a former district attorney, and his grandfather a consideration for a Supreme Court Justice. Courtrooms were Mace’s playground, and detectives like Wilscot Doyle were annoyances that interrupted his golf date. Timothée almost felt sorry for the detective being treated with such dismissal, but he wanted Doyle gone, too.