Penalty Kill

by Genevive Chamblee

  “Two weeks ago, witnesses heard you have a heated exchange with the deceased. Care to explain what happened?”

  “No.”

  Doyle’s eyes widened. “It would be of benefit if you did. It would clear up any… misunderstanding.”

  “There was no misunderstanding about it. I told him to go to hell, how to get there, and what to take with him.”

  “Why?” Doyle insisted.

  “Because we didn’t get along,” Timothée replied evenly. “Us getting into it like two whores in the streets was nothing new.”

  “Then why would he come to visit you?”

  “He didn’t. He attended the game. Our bumping into each other was unfortunate.”

  “He must have said something that made you respond the way you did.”

  “Yes he did.”

  “What was that?”

  “He said hello.”

  “There had to be more to it.”

  “My client isn’t psychic,” Mace retorted. “You can’t expect him to know of any clandestine motives Mr. Lauder may have had.”

  Detective Doyle huffed, scribbled something on an index card-sized steno pad—people still use those?—and flipped the page. His features hardened, and he turned away from Mace to address Timothée. “I would think you’d want justice. The truth is all I’m seeking.”

  Leaning against the windowsill, Timothée studied the pleats on the heavy curtain. “Are you suggesting I haven’t been?”

  “I’ve been doing this job for twenty-three years. During that time, I’ve developed a knack for knowing when a person is holding back.”

  “Well, you may want to double-check your Spidey senses.” Timothée’s gaze fell to the black satin tassel that tied the curtain back. He remembered when his mother had purchased it from an estate auction held at a Vacherie plantation, and a lump rose in his throat.

  “A lot of hardship went into making these tassels,” his mother had said. “They were twill weaved right here by indentured servants. The work is to be respected so as not to have been in vain for a people who weren’t treated humanely.”

  Why did he remember that?

  “Timothée?”

  He looked back at Mace, realizing he’d not been paying attention and that Ryker had returned. “Huh?” he asked with caution, noting Ryker’s severe scowl.

  “That call was from the lab,” Ryker stated. “Your drug test results are in.”

  Timothée’s brows furrowed. He disliked Ryker’s tone. “Yeah. And?”

  “You tested positive for Flunitrazepam,” Mace said.

  “Sure. The team gets the flu shot every year. It’s required.”

  “Not the flu. Rohypnol,” Mace explained.

  “There’s nothing wrong with my hips.”

  “Rohypnol,” Ryker clarified, shaking his head. “Roofies.”

  “Uh-uh,” Timothée growled, his spine stiffening. “This some busted can of whomp biscuit bullshit! Get that bojaggity lab on the phone. I didn’t take any drugs.”

  “Calm down,” Ryker said, holding up his hands.

  “Dat swannie! I’m not getting suspended over some Dr. Jekyll crockpot errorgasm.” He marched across the room, stood in front of Ryker, and pointed to his cell phone. “What are you waiting for? Handle this.”

  “No one thinks you took them on your own. Someone had to slip it to you, probably in one of your drinks.”

  “Which, coupled with alcohol, would explain why you’re having such a difficult time remembering.”

  Timothée blinked several times as he processed the words. “Wait. Hold the horses. Isn’t that the date rape drug?”

  Mace nodded. “It has been used for that.”

  “Why would…?” Timothée shook his head tempestuously. “No one did that to me. I would remember.”

  “Timothée, think.” Ryker clutched him by the shoulders. “Did anyone bring you a drink, or did you leave your glass unattended?”

  “It was a bachelor party. People were dancing, grabbing drinks from trays, and getting refills for each other. I’m sure I probably set my glass down a time or two.”

  “Who would want to drug you?” Detective Doyle asked.

  “No one. I hadn’t met half the people there until that night. And I hadn’t seen Javahn in nearly six years since he’d moved across the pond.”

  Detective Doyle scribbled something else in his pad. “How is it that you know Javahn Darbonne again?”

  “We went to prep school together, and later he was my college roommate.”

  Ryker’s eyes flashed. “Darbonne?”

  Timothée shook his head, barely noticeable but enough to warn not to question him on the matter.

  Doyle turned to Ryker. “You know him?”

  “Yes. Well, no.”

  The detective frowned. “Which is it?”

  “I know of him, but we’ve never met. He’s one of the best defensemen in the sport. He shocked the hockey world with his decision to play for the NL in Switzerland instead of going to the team who drafted him here in the States.”

  “NL?” Doyle asked.

  “National League,” Ryker and Timothée answered simultaneously.

  “Why the reconnect now?” Doyle pried.

  “Just because we don’t see each other doesn’t mean we haven’t kept in touch.”

  “So, he just shows up out of the blue after all these years for you to attend a party where you’re allegedly drugged and that no one can verify your time of attendance on the night your parents are murdered, and then he vanishes?”

  “Okay, this interview is over,” Mace announced, his premature gray hair not moving out of place as he stood with a fluidity that only came with arrogance and yellow money etiquette classes. “It’s clear that you’re attempting to goad my client into self-incrimination because you have zero probable cause. At this point, these questions are harassing instead of lending to a proper investigation.”

  “I’d like to answer the detective,” Timothée hissed through clenched teeth.

  Mace nodded. “Go ahead.”

  “First….” Timothée tapped the index finger of his right hand to the fingers of his left hand as he listed points. “It wasn’t some random visit. He called me weeks before he came. Second, he’s on what he calls his ‘end of bachelorhood tour.’ If you want to find him, grab some tanning oil, prepare a mea culpa for your wife, and voyage the Seven Seas. I can’t imagine a five-hundred-thirty-five-foot yacht to be that difficult to spot. And if you can’t find him, I suspect it’s because you’re not invited to the barbecue. And third….” He swung his head to Ryker. “This roofie pooh sauce better not interfere with my eligibility to play.”

  Ryker’s lips twisted. “I’ve made the necessary personnel aware of the situation, and it’s being looked into.”

  “What do you mean ‘looked into’? It’s a no-brainer. I don’t do drugs!”

  “Timothée, if you don’t calm down, you won’t have to worry about being suspended because your face twitching is going to cause a neuroelectric malfunction in your brain to where you’ll be sipping oatmeal through a straw, incontinent of bowel and bladder.”

  “It’s properly referred to as a hissy fit with a tail on it.” The corners of Mace’s lips imperceptibly curled.

  The detective cleared his throat. “Mr. Croneau, you seem more interested in your career than learning who’s responsible for your parents’ deaths.”

  “I thought I was supposed to stay out of the way so the police—that would be you—can do their job and find the killer.” Timothée turned to Mace and extended his hand. “Thank you for returning.”

  “That’s my job.” He shook Timothée’s hand and cast a steely glance at Doyle.

  With a dagger glare, Doyle collected his coat. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “Looking forward to it,” Timothée quipped. “I have to get out of this house.” He pressed the butler call button and gave instructions that he was ready to return to the hotel.

  “Don
’t goad him,” Ryker advised in a muffled tone.

  “He’ll be all right.” Instead of waiting for his guest to exit, Timothée left through the french doors that opened to the veranda and strolled the exterior to the front of the house.

  Ryker followed.

  “You’re supposed to be solving problems,” Timothée complained, “not adding to them. Now look at the intestinal boil you’ve launched. If it isn’t bedbugs, it’s ants.”

  “It’s fine. In fact, it probably helped.”

  “How? I now have the league investigating me as well as the cops.”

  “Listen to me. The levels of Flunitrazepam were miniscule. While the lab is unable to pinpoint when it entered your system, the amount indicates you aren’t a heavy or chronic user.”

  “I don’t use at all.”

  “I know this, and so will the rest of the world. You voluntarily took a private test and turned the results over to the league. An addict wouldn’t have done that, and it’s the only drug in your system. The league will take that into consideration.”

  “There should be nothing to consider.”

  “Out of all the drugs available for abuse by athletes, Rohypnol doesn’t seem like one that would make the top of the list. Do you know what the side effects are?”

  Timothée shook his head.

  “Besides causing memory loss, it also can cause complete amnesia. And that’s not all. In addition to unconsciousness, death, and coma, it can cause confusion, compromised judgment, weakened motor movement, low blood pressure, visual issues, impaired decision-making, and loss of bodily control. You would not be on the top of your game if you were abusing it.”

  “I reckon that’s true.”

  “There’s no reckon about it. Those are facts. Plus, it explains the gaps in your memory. The reason this drug is used in rapes is because it leaves victims unable to defend themselves. It’s so powerful that it can cause unconsciousness in minutes. This proves you didn’t kill your parents. You wouldn’t have possessed the physical coordination or mental clarity to get yourself from the yacht to here, and load, aim, and fire a gun.”

  “You think the police will perceive it that way? It doesn’t seem Detective Doolittle is looking at anyone else.”

  The pair descended the stairs as the SUV pulled into the horseshoe driveway.

  “If he’s shady like you seem to think, he could continue to push that agenda, but it doesn’t make sense. No prosecutor would want to walk into court against that. It’s reasonable doubt at best. Plus, the timeline is shaky. You may not be able to prove where you were, but the detective can’t prove where you weren’t. Of course, there’s another option.” Shoving his hands in his pockets, he mustered a tired smile. “You could always give him the name of another suspect.”

  Absolutely out of the question.

  Timothée didn’t wait for his driver to get out to open the door.

  21

  Ryker

  Silent treatment. More than an hour into the return drive to Northcove, Timothée hadn’t uttered a peep. Instead, he stared out the window at the silhouettes of lofty trees. Ryker, trying to be understanding and giving Timothée mental space, utilized the time to answer emails. Knowing the day had been draining on Timothée, Ryker wanted to respect his need to process and decompress, but watching the conflict ravage through him bared too much. Pocketing his phone and reaching across the seat, he hooked Timothée’s index finger with his own. Timothée’s attention drifted away from the darkness to their hands. The lines in his face softened.

  “We should stop for food. I noticed you didn’t eat anything.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “You have to take care of yourself. You’re going to need energy for your game if you’re going to play. But no one would be angry if you sat out.”

  “So everyone—especially that clatterfart mouthpiece Toby Harrelson—can snicker that I’ve been suspended?”

  “They wouldn’t. You’ve been through a lot.” He’d watched Timothée shake through the entire funeral service, not having completely recovered from viewing his mother. Ryker had questioned Aidan’s action but had come to realize it was a wise choice. Had the casket not been opened in private, Timothée would have lost it in front of the more than two hundred attendees at the entombment. And although Ryker had arranged for security, a handful of paparazzi had gathered at the cemetery gates—public property—and aimed their long-lensed cameras at the mausoleum. “People are more understanding than you give them credit for.”

  “Is that what you tell yourself?”

  “It’s what I know.”

  “Aw, pauvre bête.”

  “I’ve heard you say that before. What’s it mean?”

  Timothée chucked softly. “Well, literally it translates to ‘poor beast,’ but in these parts, it means ‘you poor thing.’ How naïve you are.”

  Ryker’s chest puffed out. “Just because I trust people doesn’t make me naïve. It’s called optimism and faith.”

  “Same difference.”

  “You trust Aidan.”

  “Because he’s Aidan. Is that a problem?”

  No point venturing down this rabbit hole. If Timothée could deflect, so could he. Changing the subject, Ryker asked, “Have you always spoken French?”

  “Meh.” He shrugged. “A variation, I suppose. I have the three Cs.”

  “What’s that?”

  “My mother….” He hesitated until the quake in his voice subsided.

  Ryker tightened his finger around Timothée’s. “Go on.”

  Timothée turned to the window again. “It’s a huge misconception that everyone in Louisiana speaks French or even that there’s one kind of French here. But my mother spoke it fluently. Luca couldn’t stand it. He was never able to catch on. As a result, she never taught me. I picked up a few words here and there. And Hettie, my nanny, taught me some until I started school. Then one day, I came home, and she was gone. It wasn’t until I was thirteen that I learned Luca had fired her for not folding the towels a certain way. One hockey camp, her grandson attended and told me what happened. All those years, I thought she’d just left me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. She found a better job. Hell, scrubbing toilets in a public restroom in le Vieux Carré with a toothbrush would have been an upgrade to working for that bastard.”

  “Doesn’t matter. You were hurt.”

  Timothée shrugged and darted his gaze back at Ryker. “When I went to Montreal, there wasn’t an option not to learn.”

  “But what are the three Cs?”

  “I’m Cajun, and the French my mother spoke was Cajun French. Hettie was Creole, which meant she spoke Creole French. In Montreal, I learned Canadian French.”

  “See, this is something your fans should know about you. Actually, that gives me an idea. Maybe some of your social media posts should be in French.”

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I play on an English-speaking team now.”

  “What’s that got to do with it? You spoke to Aidan in French.” In the language of love.

  “It’s more comfortable for him.” Timothée arched his brow. “You have a problem with Aidan?”

  “No.”

  “You’ve mentioned him twice.

  Ryker swiveled to look out the window, his neck heating up as he turned and the gleam in his eyes turning traitorous. Stop with the cockamamie crap. “Just an observation. He’s a hell of a hockey player. He doesn’t say much.”

  “He says what he needs to say.”

  “So it seems.” He hadn’t intended to broach this subject, and it shouldn’t bother him. Timothée was allowed to have friends, and it made sense that Aidan was his BFF. But dammit! He was bothered. I’m his agent, he reminded himself. “I arranged for the flowers to be sent to the Colonnade Vista Senior Care Retirement Home and any cash donations to the local animal rescue. All the receipts are being forwarded to your accountant, but I als
o entered them into a spreadsheet for you to cross-reference if you need. You’ll find a tentative schedule of your community benefits is uploaded on your calendar along with the name and phone number of the organizer and your contact person. You’ll start the Pre-K Puppet Parade in two weeks and perform an encore every other month at the children’s hospital. Of course, you won’t be expected on weeks you have away games. I’m still working on your press release about your test results.”

  “You’ve been a busy little bee.”

  Retrieving a stick of lip balm from his pocket, he swiped it across his lips to relieve their drying. “I have to earn my paycheck, and I’m a workaholic. You realize this is just the beginning. Building a brand takes time, and navigating rebranding takes even longer.”

  “Which reminds me. What happened to Lesley?”

  “She’s catching a red-eye out. She’s already headed to the airport.”

  “So, did she fly in to check up on you or me?”

  A sly grin slowly spread across Ryker’s face. “She wanted to pay her respects; but if I were to guess, I say mostly me. However, you were a close second.”

  Timothée grunted. “I don’t like to be second.”

  What a coincidence. Neither do I. “You don’t say.” A moment of silence passed. “So, are you going to tell me about Javahn Darbonne? He could have important information. At least call him.”

  “I’ll tell you the same as I did Inspector Gadget. He’s somewhere on his Sin City party barge sailing the ocean blue.”

  “Horseshit! You know exactly where he is, and you’re hiding something. I could tell the moment his name came up.”

  “Clairvoyant, are we?”

  “I’m not stupid,” Ryker growled.

  “No, but you are pissy. And stop making that noise. It confuses me. I don’t know if I’m to offer you water to clear your throat or a parvo vaccine for distemper.”

  “Look—”

  Timothée closed his eyes, swiped his hands over his face, and whispered, “Please, Rye, drop it.”