Who would want to kidnap Layla anyway? No, that ransom thing had to be some kind of subterfuge. But for what purpose? Abby couldn’t figure out why in the world somebody would pretend to kidnap someone they had just murdered. And why haul the body off if it was murder?
No, she calmly reasoned, Layla was still alive. She had to be, all that blood notwithstanding.
As they waited for whatever was coming next, Abby thought more about the possible kidnapping angle. Layla’s many outfits had not come cheaply. That Boho style she wore didn’t sell big in Tallahassee and her clothes had New York City boutique labels. She drove a brand-new Honda Civic. True, she lived in a small garage apartment in the back of her landlord’s house, but her laptop was top of the line, and her jewelry was real gold. Abby knew because she’d tried some of it on at Layla’s invitation. Same with a couple of the long skirts, which had looked ridiculous on Abby’s petite frame.
“Is Layla rich?” Abby broke the silence as she lifted her head to look into Victor’s blue eyes. The associate dean stepped closer as if to hear more perfectly what was said.
“Her parents are. I can’t say she was ashamed of it, but she didn’t like to…you know, flaunt it.” Victor shifted his body a bit, then relaxed his arm around Abby. “She was…damn it, she is…determined to make it on her own.” He paused as if debating whether to say more.
“What?”
“Layla and her parents aren’t close. They…well, she had money from the family business, but not much contact with her mom or dad. I mean, she has money from them, but not much else.”
Abby shivered at Victor’s use of the past tense, even if he had quickly corrected himself. Layla couldn’t be dead. She just couldn’t be.
“Her dad is some CEO in this big oil company out in Houston,” Victor added. “It’s a company her grandfather started.”
“She never mentioned her folks to me, not once.” But Abby realized boyfriends knew things temporary roommates didn’t. “So, Layla’s from oil money.”
“Yes. That’s one reason she was so keen to work with Phillip and his oil and gas clients.” Again, Victor paused, cocking his head toward the listening dean and lowering his voice. “I think she was trying to get her dad’s attention—maybe his approval—by working on that oil and gas stuff. She really hated the idea of drilling for oil in the Gulf of Mexico, but that’s what Phillip and her father were working on.”
Someone over by the bathroom shouted out “careful” and Abby straightened up to look over that way. More and more law enforcement officials were pouring in and their voices bounced around the library’s basement.
An older man with thinning gray hair, but straight posture and a flat stomach despite his obvious age, hurried over to Abby and Victor. He wore a sloppy gray suit and no tie, with a plainly visible gun under his jacket. “Detective Joe Rizzo,” he said. A younger man wearing a similar suit and expression hurried up behind him. “This is my partner, Lucas Kelly.”
Victor stood up, pulling Abby with him. When he offered the older man his hand, Abby studied the look in the detective’s eyes. Not good.
“Layla’s diabetic. You have to find her. Now.” Abby hated the hysterical tone of her voice. “And all that blood, she must be seriously wounded.”
“Yes, you mentioned the diabetes.” Rizzo eyed her carefully.
Abby didn’t remember speaking with this man before, but when the younger detective motioned her to another corner of the library, she stiffened. In all of her three decades of life, she’d never been questioned by a police detective, never even had a parking ticket or been stopped by a traffic cop. She didn’t even handle criminal cases. Those were left to others at the law firm.
Abby hesitated. Maybe she should refuse to talk to the detective. She could call Delphine to come to the library and act as her attorney. But, no, that would make her look guilty—and it might slow down the search for Layla. And after all, Abby was an attorney too. Even if she didn’t practice criminal law, she knew she had a right to refuse to answer.
“If you’ll come with me, now,” the younger detective asked.
Abby nodded, ready to follow the officer. But Victor took her hand and gripped it as if he didn’t want her to go.
Was she about to be arrested? A tingle of apprehension began to travel up Abby’s whole body, landing in her stomach. She felt ill. She squeezed Victor’s hands, seeking some kind of comfort.
“I won’t bite.” Detective Kelly gave her a warm, friendly smile as he broke Abby and Victor apart and led her away. “And please, call me Lucas. May I call you Abby?”
She nodded.
Abby only had to tell the truth. She’d done nothing wrong. She and Victor were not in any kind of trouble. But as Abby turned back for a nervous glance at Victor, his expression suggested he might be thinking otherwise.
“How about we sit here and chat?” Lucas pulled out a chair for Abby.
She waited for him to tell her she had a right to remain silent. Instead, he asked, “Why were you down here?”
Abby nervously babbled out a tumble of words and told Lucas the whole story. Start to finish, pretty much without any pause, she included the mugging at the law firm and Emmett’s visit to the basement.
Lucas nodded, his body leaning in close to Abby’s as if listening intently to every word. But he didn’t take any notes.
“May I get you a cup of water? Or something else to drink?” he asked.
Abby shook her head, though her mouth was dry. She just wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible.
“All right, then. Let’s start over. Who knew you and Layla Freemont would be here tonight in the library basement?” Lucas pulled out a notebook and a pen.
Abby blurted out, “My boss Delphine, you know, at the law firm. Delphine Summers. Plus Phillip Draper, he saw us here. And, um…well Miguel, that is Professor Miguel Angel Castillo. I told you about Emmett, the firm’s law clerk, being here to help with the research, and then—” She stopped as Lucas scribbled in his notebook. She realized she was making a list of suspects. But why would any of these people want to hurt Layla?
Lucas stopped writing and looked up, his eyes narrowed with concentration as he studied her face. “Go on. Who else?”
Sitting quietly, Abby looked down at her hands, folded primly in her lap. “Well, practically everyone at the law firm.”
Abby kept hearing Layla pressing her to promise not to tell anyone “no matter what” that Jennifer had been at their house talking with Layla. But did “no matter what” include being murdered, or cut and kidnapped?
Lucas kept staring at her as if he could read her mind.
Abby licked her lips and shrugged. “Like I told you. Everyone at the law firm knew we’d be here. And, I suppose…” she hesitated. Would emphasizing that their spouses might know alert Lucas without breaking her promise to Layla?
“Yes?” Lucas leaned closer to Abby, his gaze penetrating.
“All of the lawyers would have known, and their wives too.”
“Wives?” Lucas’s voice had a note of surprise. “Why do you say wives?”
“Well, you know, wives. They’d know what their husbands knew.” She struggled not to avert her eyes from Lucas’s.
“All right, so what you’re telling me is that it was no secret and a lot of people knew you two would be spending the night in the law library basement.” Lucas sounded disgusted.
Abby nodded.
“Fine then, go back to why Miss Freemont was staying with you? Then bring me up to date to this evening.”
It took Abby a nervous few minutes to repeat the story about the fire in Layla’s kitchen, the mugging, and all the rest of it. Lucas squiggled in his notebook the whole time. She began to sweat.
“Okay, now, let’s get back to who knew Layla would be here in the library basement with you tonight?” Lucas glared at her, a certain menace in his eyes that she hadn’t seen before. “That is, besides you, the whole law firm, that professor, the law cl
erk, and Mr. Victor Rutledge.”
“Are we suspects?” Abby hated the squeak in her voice.
“Any reason you should be suspects?”
Abby shut her mouth, pressing her lips together. She had already said too much.
Lucas stretched, shook his hand like his wrist was sore, and focused on Abby once more. “Now, explain to me exactly why you and Miss Freemont were in the basement of the library tonight?”
By the time they were done going over everything, not once, not twice but several times, Abby was faint with hunger and thirst and the queasy feeling in her stomach was worse. “Are we done yet?”
“Yep, done for now. I’ve got your contact info and you have mine.” Lucas stood up and folded his notebook shut. “You should go back upstairs to the main library.”
Abby popped out of her chair so quickly she was dizzy, but shook it off and hurried toward the stairway to the main floor of the library. She wondered how Victor had fared with Rizzo as she climbed the stairs.
When she opened the door and stepped into the main entrance of the law library, Delphine rushed up and took Abby in her arms and hugged her. “Oh, my poor dear,” she whispered. Over Delphine’s shoulder, Abby saw Phillip pacing, his head down, his perfect posture gone. Behind him, languishing by the reference desk, Jennifer waited.
What was she doing there? Abby stared at Jennifer.
“Don’t worry about the trial brief.” Delphine patted Abby’s back. “Send me anything new that you wrote last night and I’ll get Emmett working on it right away.”
The trial brief! Where were the laptops and Layla’s backpack? In the chaos of the blood and the police and the associate dean’s corralling them up, Abby had forgotten about them.
Abby pushed out of Delphine’s hold. “I’ve got to check downstairs and get our laptops and stuff.”
“Surely the police—” Delphine started to say, but Abby was already running back to the basement stairs.
If those two detectives thought that Abby and Victor were behind Layla’s disappearance and the bloody mess in the basement bathroom, then Abby was going to have to do something to help Layla while the cops chased down the wrong trail. And she was going to need Victor—even if she did have those inappropriate thoughts about him. But first, she had to see what Layla had hidden in her backpack or saved on a hard drive.
Chapter Eighteen
Victor bridled under the strict questioning by Detective Rizzo and finally snapped out, “Look, I was a Master of Arms in the Navy. If you don’t know what that is, it means security and law enforcement. I joined while I was still in high school. I’m no crook.”
“Yeah, that’s what Nixon said too,” the detective replied.
Rizzo gave Victor such a hard look that Victor figured Rizzo had already Googled him, or otherwise learned about the accusations that led to his resignation from the Navy. But Victor wasn’t going to be the one who brought that up. He matched Rizzo’s hard look with one of his own.
“Just tell me again what you were doing in the library basement.” Rizzo poised his pen over his notebook, but kept his eyes on Victor.
“I told you. Studying. I fell asleep. It happens.” Even Victor could hear how weak that sounded. But, come on, if he’d been the one who had either killed or kidnapped Layla, why would he have called 9-1-1 and still be hanging around when the cops showed up?
“All right. At least you’re consistent.” Rizzo jotted something down in his notebook before glancing up at Victor again. “But how’d you get in? The assistant dean told me nobody is allowed in the basement after 9 p.m. unless they have an access card.”
Victor pondered the best way to answer this. He didn’t want to lie to a police officer, but he didn’t want to tell the truth exactly either. “I borrowed an access card.” There, that was true. He just wouldn’t volunteer anything else.
But Rizzo must have sensed something. “Who’d you borrow the access card from?”
Feeling trapped, Victor said, “Law review.”
Rizzo scribbled down far more words than just law review, but he didn’t ask any more questions about the access card. No doubt the law enforcement officials were already checking the records to see just who had entered the basement that evening after normal hours since every access card was recorded the moment it was swiped through the scanner.
Switching back to an earlier topic, Rizzo asked, “So who besides you knew Layla Freemont would be working in the library basement tonight?”
“I told you ten times already. I didn’t know she was going to be here. I had my phone off because I was in a library and I didn’t get her messages until this morning. After I called 9-1-1. I showed you my phone already. And I’ve told you, I don’t know who else would know she was here.”
Victor heard somebody running and spun around to see Abby skidding to a stop by the study carrel. Her face was pale, but her eyes were red. He wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her, but Rizzo moved between him and Abby as he stepped over to her.
“Don’t touch anything, ma’am.” A uniformed officer cut her off before Rizzo reached her.
“I just want to make sure my laptop and Layla’s backpack and laptop are all right. That nobody stole them.” Abby glared at the officer and pointed. “That’s my laptop. And that’s Layla’s, in the bright cover. And her backpack.”
Rizzo stepped up to the backpack. “Layla’s stuff was hidden under a pile of books. You want to explain that?”
Abby’s pale face pinked up. “I covered them up when I went to the bathroom, so nobody would steal them.” Abby reached toward a laptop, but the detective grabbed her hand.
“Don’t touch it. That’s evidence now. I’ll have the evidence tech bag it up. Her laptop and yours.” Rizzo dropped Abby’s hand but continued to stand in front of the computers and the backpack.
“Mine? Why would you even consider taking my computer?” Abby stepped forward, getting into Rizzo’s private space, her hands on her hips and her chin jutting out. When she spoke, she had a sharp edge in her voice. “I’m a lawyer and I have attorney-client privileged materials on that laptop. Layla is our legal intern. As such she is well within the scope and protection of the rule and she has attorney-client privileged materials on hers too. You’re not taking custody of those computers and their privileged files without a warrant and an in-chambers review of the materials in front of a judge.”
Victor grinned. He didn’t know if Abby knew much about criminal law, but she knew how to stand up for herself.
“So you’re obstructing justice now, are you?” Rizzo belted out.
Abby didn’t budge. Something in her eyes convinced Victor that Rizzo was going to have to jump through several legal hoops before he ever came close to touching either Abby’s laptop or Layla’s.
Delphine slid in beside Abby, a protective look on her attractive face. “What’s the problem?”
The cops and the lawyers all started arguing, talking at once.
Victor stepped back from the gathering of attorneys and police. They hadn’t charged him with anything and his attempts at being helpful and honest didn’t seem to be paying off so well. He might as well leave and catch up with Abby as soon as he could later. Idly, he wondered if the law school would cancel classes today.
He climbed the stairs to the main floor of the library. As he crossed the floor toward the exit, he passed a well-dressed, good-looking woman who was hovering near the stairwell door to the basement. She looked up and their eyes met. With a start, he recognized her from the photos in Architectural Digest. Mrs. Jennifer Draper.
Knowing it would be rude to simply turn away, Victor nodded. “Good morning.” He didn’t call her by name but somehow her expression suggested she knew him too.
“The plumber.” She spoke in soft tones and with a detached calmness that belied the situation.
How would she know? Victor didn’t look away, but he also didn’t speak.
“Security cameras.” Jennifer spoke with an air of a
loofness and cut her eyes back to the stairs as if she’d already lost interest.
“Yes, ma’am.” Victor stepped away from her, hoping she would say no more. He had no particular interest in explaining anything about his aborted toilet repairs to Detective Rizzo.
When the woman said nothing further, Victor made for the exit as quickly as he could without appearing to be running.
Chapter Nineteen
I’m nearly frantic. Neither Abby nor Layla have returned home and the sun is up already. Where can they be? At least the would-be burglar never returned, but still something is terribly amiss.
I have paced the house, checking every door and every window for a way out so that I might try to find them. But Abby keeps things locked and secure. I cannot escape. When that nice gentleman with the sandy hair, Victor, came to the door earlier in the evening, I did try to communicate to him the urgency of finding Abby and Layla. But the man simply doesn’t understand cat language. And people consider us “dumb animals.” Even the dullest of cats and stupidest of dogs can understand people language.
Ruminating on the shortcomings of bipeds will do no good, I tell myself, and sniff around the windows one more time. Just as I’m scratching, rather futilely I might add, on the glass pane of a back window, the front door opens. I hear voices and dash to the front, and cry out with relief. Abby is home.
And Victor is with her.
I run to them, demanding to know what is going on. Where is Layla? What is wrong? It wouldn’t take a detective to tell they are both upset. Abby looks as if she’s been crying. My head-butting her leg brings only an absent-minded pat and her assuring me she will feed me in a moment.
For once I do not want food—well, maybe some more of that poached cod at some near future date. Now, what I want is information. Turning to Victor, I ask him what is going on in my clear cat voice.
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