His Masterpiece

by Ava Lore

  Swallowing around my suddenly dry tongue, I turned it over. A small dark object slid out and fell to my feet, hitting the tiled floor with the flat slap of plastic.

  He had left something for me. Somehow. It was like a plot twist out of a movie, which, now that I knew Malcolm, was completely predictable. Replacing the vase on the shelf, I knelt down and retrieved the object that had been hidden in it.

  It was a thumb drive.

  My heart started to beat faster.

  Calm down, I told myself. Don't freak out yet. Anything could be on this drive. Anything at all. It could be the photos of me, it could be old love letters, anything. Getting my hopes up would be stupid.

  Clutching the drive so tightly in my hand that the sharp plastic edges bit into the bones of my fingers, I sprinted out of the bathroom, wove my way through the maze of the third floor, and pounded up the stairs, hoping Malcolm had left his bedroom intact.

  He had. The computer still sat at the far wall, the screen dark but the lights still on. I prayed he hadn't left it password protected as I hurried over to it, uncapping the drive before I reached out and wiggled the mouse. To my immense relief the monitor flared to life, showing his desktop. The picture on it was one of the pictures of me that he had managed to capture—a beautiful still image of my mouth and chin, the curve of my throat, the swell of my shoulder—but I forced myself to ignore it. My fingers shook as I found a USB slot on the tower and shoved the drive in.

  I waited, hopping from foot to foot until the computer dinged, recognizing the drive, and I clicked on it, opening up the directory.

  A password dialog popped up.

  I nearly shrieked with frustration, but I took a deep breath and tried to think like a dumb motherfucker.

  If I were a dumb motherfucker, I postulated, who thought life should be like a movie and this was a great romantic plot twist, what password would I put on the critical information that would keep me out of prison?

  I leaned forward and typed in “Sadie.”

  The dialog box disappeared and the directory filled out.

  Of course.

  I began to click around.

  With each file opened, I felt my mouth drop wider and wider. It was all here: offshore bank accounts, spreadsheets with discrepancies highlighted, huge documents detailing the history of this or that chunk of money and Don's exact role in making it disappear... Malcolm hadn't been kidding when he'd said he had proof. He not only had proof, but he had built a whole case, as though he were an expert in corporate law. Actually, he probably thought he was, given his self-assessment of all his other talents. But mostly I was just shocked that Felicia's farfetched theory had been right. He'd left the evidence of his innocence for me in the vase, and now I held his future in my hands.

  Huh, I thought. Somehow, I wasn't shocked that her thoughts and Malcolm's had lined up so neatly. They both liked life to be like a movie, chasing that Oscar-winning scene. They both had artistic souls.

  ...Still, the question remained: how had he done it? I'd broken the vase on a Friday night, and we had left on a Monday. There was no way the vase could have been repaired before we departed New York...

  Then I remembered. Malcolm on the phone in the cafe in Dubrovnik, speaking in Japanese. The note left in French for the man whose life he had changed, along with a wad of bills as thick as my wrist.

  He had arranged it. I wasn't quite sure how he'd arranged it, or what the exact arrangements had been, but he'd planned it all out. Before he even knew if he was going to die or not. He'd decided to put the pieces in place just in case. Just in case he decided to live and needed to something dramatic as hell to keep my life interesting.

  It was such a Malcolm thing to do that I had to laugh. He was such a dumb motherfucker, and I loved it.

  The realization brought me up short, but then I nodded.

  Yeah, I thought to myself. That's right. I love it.

  Suddenly able to breathe easily, I popped the thumb drive out of the computer and capped it, shut down all the programs, then unceremoniously pulled the plug. I hadn't brought my purse with me, the pockets of my jeans had holes in them, and the pouch of my hoodie was far too unsecured. I wavered with indecision, then with a huff of exasperation I stuffed the drive down my underwear, where it nestled in Malcolm's favorite place. Fitting, in more ways than one, though admittedly not the most sanitary spot. But when you are as flat-chested as I am, hiding things in your cleavage is not an option.

  I had to get this to his lawyers.

  Head whirling with thoughts of the future, of the possibility that there might be a future, one in which he was alive and free, I jogged back to the stairs and took them two at a time down to the third floor. I paused on the landing, then decided that if Malcolm wanted me to have the vase, then I should probably take the vase, too. I slipped into the hallway and started for the master bedroom.

  I was so preoccupied that I almost didn't hear the front door opening, but my lizard brain heard it. The part of me that always listened for the bedroom door opening heard it. The part of me that slept with one eye open heard it.

  I froze in my tracks.

  “Hullo?”

  A man's voice with a British accent floated up from the lower floors.

  Someone else was in the house.

  Old impulses rose up, telling me to run, to flee, but even as my legs twitched with the flight response, my civilized brain was trying to override it, telling me that not everything was dangerous.

  Yeah, right.

  Swallowing hard, I inched my way across the floor, praying it wouldn't creak under my weight, and leaned over the bannister, trying to hear where the intruder was in the house.

  “Hulloo?” the voice called again. “Sadie MacElroy?”

  Whoever it was knew my name, knew I was here. They had to have been watching the house. The voice seemed vaguely familiar, but I couldn't place it. Very cultured, a bit nasally, and definitely at the front of the house, between me and the front door. Was there a back door? Not that I could get to it without being seen, and if there was it probably led into a closed garden...

  I took a deep breath and tried to think.

  There wasn't any reason I couldn't be here. I had a key. I had permission from Malcolm—albeit through his lawyers—to be here. So really, it was the other person who shouldn't be here. Paparazzo? Reporter? They must have been waiting for someone to show their face. Though usually they stayed within the bounds of the law and remained outside. So probably not paparazzo. Who, then?

  I looked around, but I had no idea where the fire escape was, and even as I frantically tried to remember where it had been situated on the outside of the house the sound of heavy footsteps started up the stairs.

  “I only want to talk! Miss MacElroy? Please, it's important. My name is Morris Denton, I work for Mr. Ward...”

  I bit my lip and backed up from the stairway. He was going to be here any second now. Why, oh why wasn't there a second stairwell? What kind of rich person's house was this? I didn't want to talk to him, but I was stuck.

  He came up the stairs.

  My first impression was of a man Malcolm's age, but far more staid and conservative. Malcolm dressed beautifully, but there was that irrepressible something about him, a humming energy beneath his skin that I now recognized as the creative force. This man looked far more like a successful businessman than Malcolm did. His dark hair was cut in a sober style instead of Malcolm's wild locks, his skin was pale and his eyes were dark and serious behind gold-rimmed glasses. His coat hung well on his lean body, and he seemed surprised to actually find me when his line of sight crested the stairs.

  “Oh! Miss MacElroy. There you are...”

  I took a step back, even though I knew it was futile. It showed I was weak, too. But instead of pressing his advantage, Mr. Denton suddenly looked contrite.

  “I'm so sorry,” he said, and he spread his hands, showing me his palms. A clear, universal gesture that told me he meant no harm, and I for
ced myself to relax a tiny bit, but the thumb drive in my underwear was a harsh reminder that I had a job to do. An important job. I didn't have time to talk to whoever this man was.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I was just leaving.”

  “Please!” The word erupted from him and he took a step forward, startling me. The edge in my blood came back. Who was this guy, and why was he here?

  I narrowed my eyes. “Yes?”

  He subsided a bit. “I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. You are Sadie MacElroy, yes?”

  I lifted a brow. “Who wants to know?” Not the most original of lines, but I felt that, given the circumstances, it was a legitimate one.

  He seemed to relax. “My apologies. My name is Morris Denton. I'm the Chief Technical Officer of Warden Industries. I've worked with Mr. Ward for a number of years and it's my belief that he is innocent of the fraud and embezzlement charges that have been leveled against him.” His British accent was pleasant and lilting, and I had to fight my natural impulse to agree with him on the assumption that someone with a British accent would naturally know what they were talking about.

  “How do you know who I am?” I asked him instead.”

  He colored. “Everyone knows who you are. As Mr. Ward's current paramour and alleged kidnapping victim—” He held up a hand as I opened my mouth to protest. “—which it is obvious you were not, you are in a very privileged position and I have been frantic to reach you. You are well protected by your employer at the moment, but I have to admit I asked someone to watch the house and let me know if you showed up... I thought if you did, I might be able to enlist your help.”

  Oh, really? I wasn't quite buying it. This guy had to be an undercover reporter or something. “Help with what?”

  “With finding evidence of Mr. Ward's innocence, of course.”

  “Why would you think I would know anything about that?”

  His brow furrowed. “I've watched Mr. Ward grow increasingly erratic over the past half year. It was clear something was bothering him. Fleeing the country with a young woman is only the culmination of his behavior, and it is not entirely unlikely that he may have taken you into his confidence.”

  “I wasn't,” I lied.

  His face fell. “But... perhaps, as someone who knew his personal habits, you might have a guess?” I stared at him and he held his hands out, a gesture of vulnerability. “I admire Mr. Ward very much. He has been like a mentor to me. Please, help me?”

  My eyes narrowed, but his face remained placid, pleading.

  “You say your name is Morris Denton?” I said at last. “And you're the CTO of Malcolm's company?”

  He nodded.

  “Then I'm going to have to see some photo ID,” I told him, and crossed my arms.

  I mean, come on. I'm not fucking stupid.

  A flash of something crossed his face, but almost immediately it was eclipsed by a relieved smile. “Of course,” he said. He opened his fine coat and dug into the inside pocket, taking out his wallet. Opening it, he selected a card and handed it to me. I plucked it from his fingers and studied it.

  That was a mistake. The first thing people do when they look at a license is study the face. It's right there. Is that the right face? we ask ourselves.

  Yes, it was the right face. Dark hair, dark eyes, nondescript, thick brows, glasses. A nice face. The face in front of me. The right face.

  My eyes drifted over to the information, and that was when my blood suddenly slowed to a sluggish crawl in my veins.

  Right face. But not the right name.

  I stared at the license. The name Donald Cardall stared back up at me.

  I went numb. My instincts that this man was not who he said he was had been right, but in the wrong direction. But of course it was Don. Of course it was. It wouldn't be just like a movie if it weren't.

  A click brought me back to reality and I looked up.

  Might have to reevaluate the 'not stupid' part, I thought, staring at the gun Don Cardall now held casually aimed at my heart.

  Chapter Sixteen

  So there I was on the third floor of Malcolm Ward's house, totally defenseless with a gun trained on me by Malcolm's once bosom brother turned mortal enemy, Don Cardall, which, now that I thought about it, was totally a Mafia name.

  Holy shit, I thought. Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit. I have to admit, I was really surprised. This guy was going to kill me. You don't just pull a gun on someone and expect them to stay quiet about it. And Jesus. I hadn't expected a fucking gun. I hadn't expected to get fucking murdered.

  I mean, now that I was face to face with him and saw the tiny flame of desperation in his eyes, it made total sense to me. This was a guy who had everything to lose if I somehow managed to spill the beans. I suppose I should have been thankful that he came along to do the job himself—whack me good, just to make sure I didn't talk, see?—but it was kind of hard to feel anything positive when you're about to die.

  I had to distract him somehow. Keep him from killing me long enough to formulate a plan. I'd taken self defense classes. They were all useless in this situation, of course, but I knew how to kick at least.

  Reaching out he plucked his license from my hand and put it back in his pocket, all the while watching me with a wary air, clearly waiting for me to react. I was still stuck in my deer-in-the-headlights mode. Distract, I told myself. Distract!

  So I did what I do best. I told him he was an idiot.

  I mean, say what you like about me, but I'm really good at that.

  “Why didn't you just send goons to kill me?” I snapped at him, proud that my voice didn't shake. “What kind of shrewd business dude are you if you don't know how to delegate?”

  Right away I knew that was a mistake. His lips tightened and his eyes narrowed. “Who would I trust?” he demanded, and now his voice was completely familiar to me, the voice I'd heard over the phone, without any accent at all. “There is no one to trust. This is something I have to do myself, to be absolutely sure it's handled. Now, tell me where Malcolm has hidden the files.”

  I struggled to maintain nonchalance. “Beats me.” I shrugged. “They could be anywhere.”

  His eyes gleamed. “So there are files.”

  Shit. All right. I had a problem with keeping my mouth shut. Maybe I was fucking stupid.

  “Where are all of Malcolm's things? What has he done to this house? Why is it empty?” The barrel of the gun wavered slightly as he peered around, clearly unhappy with the stripped interior.

  I needed to get him out of the house. Somewhere in public. “He had it all moved to a warehouse,” I said. “He told me he was giving it all away.”

  Don looked surprised at that. “Give it away? Why?”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Beats me,” I said.

  “Rest assured, I will if you do not cooperate.”

  Threats. This fucking guy was a real shithead. First he called me a gold digger and yelled at me on an international phone call, and now he was threatening to beat me, in addition to probably killing me.

  Maybe I could use the fact that he was a shithead against him, though. He was smart, shrewd, ruthless—I knew all that from Malcolm's descriptions and my own interactions with him, but contrary to what most people think, being a shithead is a pretty big weakness, and it's the best weakness to exploit because shitheads never think of it as a weakness.

  I fought to keep my chin from lifting defiantly and instead tried to look scared. It wasn't hard. I was scared. But I wasn't going to go down without a fight. Malcolm said he admired that in me. I wouldn't let him down.

  Don looked mollified. “Very well. Do you know where the warehouse is?”

  Sullenly I shook my head and he sighed, as though he dealt with idiots like me every day and it was beginning to wear on his great soul. Reaching into his pants pocket he pulled out a phone and turned it on. He must have dialed this number frequently because he only had to hit a single spot on the screen before bringing it to his ear and listening for t
he voice at the other end.

  “Rick?” he said after a moment. “Yes. I need to know where all of Malcolm's personal effects are located. Yes, he moved them. Find out.”

  We stared at each other for a long moment while the man at the other end of the line did whatever it was he needed to do to find Malcolm's secret stash of worthless shit. I tried not to think about the fact that one of Malcolm's lawyers was named Rick. The implications were dreadful.

  On the other end of the line Rick came back and Don nodded. “Yes, thank you.” He hit the end button, stuffed the phone back in his pocket, then tilted his head and regarded me. “Let's go,” he said.

  I balked. “What?” I said. “Why do I have to go? I don't know anything!” Feigning ignorance of course. I knew lots, but I hoped that if I acted like he might let me go his opinion of my intelligence would sink even lower, if that were possible.

  My ruse worked. Contempt passed over his face and I saw that he had to fight rolling his eyes.

  What a shithead.

  “You are coming with me because I don't believe you. You must have come here looking for the evidence.” His eyes narrowed. “Turn out your pockets.”

  I glared at him as I did so, my heart in my mouth. If he strip-searched me it was all over...

  He watched, eyes bright, as I turned the pockets of my jeans out, showing him the holes in them. Then he walked toward me, his fine shoes loud on the wooden floor, and stuck his free hand into the pouch of my sweatshirt. His fingers were large, ungentle, and my stomach turned at the feel of them groping me through the thick fabric. He found my phone, took it and then, without warning, he lifted the hem of my sweatshirt and slipped his hand underneath.

  I couldn't help myself. I squeaked and tried to squirm away. “What the fuck, man?” I demanded. No one touches me without my consent. No one. “Hands off, pervert!”

  He seemed startled by my outburst. His gun hand was so close to me I thought I might be able to knock it out of his grip, but if I missed...

  He took a step back, and the moment was lost. Fuck.