“Oh.” Tate could imagine what that call must have been like. His eyes swung back to the drawing, and the whole thing took on new shades of meaning.
“You should have seen the way your friends swung into action, Tate. They really do love you.”
“They’re good people,” he conceded. “The best.”
“You, too, Tate. You are, too.”
“I don’t know. I try, but…anyway. Our food’s getting cold. Let’s eat.”
AFTER BREAKFAST, HE and Lyla were going over her calendar for the next few weeks, when Tate’s cell began chiming with an unfamiliar local number.
He and Lyla watched it for a long moment before Tate snatched it up and answered, “This is Captain Monroe.”
“Captain, Detective Scarletti here. I got your message. Good thing, too, since I was hoping to catch a word with you today.”
“So, what do you think?” Tate asked him. “Can you guys get something on Lyla’s phone to trace who keeps calling?”
“We’ll look into it. In the meantime, I’d appreciate it if you could do me a favor.”
“What’s that?”
“I’d like to have a timeline of your injury and subsequent recovery, to stick in Ms. Lawson’s file. Where you were, what you were doing, and when. You can drop it by the station whenever you have it ready for me.”
Tate held still for a long beat, immediately on guard. “And why would you want that?”
“Crossing all my t’s, chief.” A pause, then, “Unless there’s some reason you don’t want to share.”
What an asshole. “Detective, I have absolutely nothing to hide.”
“Great. Then I’ll look for you this afternoon. How’s three sound?”
“Fine. Three sounds fine,” Tate gritted out. He stabbed at the screen, infuriated. What was the officer trying to pull? Was he trying to intimidate him?
“What was that about?” Lyla wondered.
“Hang on,” he told her, then dialed Red. When he answered on the second ring, Tate barked, “Dude, why the fuck is Detective Scarletti asking me to give him a timeline of my injury? How is that remotely applicable to Lyla’s case?”
Red wasn’t surprised. “Yeah, I’ve been trying to get a second to call you all morning, but I’ve been stuck in meetings. That bastard showed up at Trident first thing, supposedly to pick up an updated chronology of Lyla’s run-ins with her stalker. But he was really sniffing around asking questions about you. I’m just happy I was there to run interference.”
“What did he say?”
“Well, let’s see. One highlight was when he asked if you read a lot of mysteries, and I told him he was a shithead for implying anything. He gave me the whole, What? Convalescents read bit.”
“Not this one,” Tate muttered.
“I might have mentioned the difficulties you had with focus at that time,” Red admitted.
“Terrific. I’m sure that will improve his opinion of me dramatically.”
His friend said, “Tate, Scarletti’s on the wrong track, and he will figure that out sooner or later. There’s no way he can tie you to Lyla’s problems, even if he wants to.”
“Dude, don’t you watch TV?” Tate complained. “Cops can prove whatever they want to prove.”
“Don’t get paranoid. Now, what’s the deal with the timeline he wants?”
“He said to bring it by the station at three.”
“You do not go there alone. Do you hear me?” Red demanded. “Scarletti may be trying to get a rise out of you, but you are not going to give him any more ammunition than absolutely necessary. I’m going to call my lawyer right now. He’ll meet you at the precinct house. Listen to him and do exactly what he says.”
“Oh. come on. Is that really necessary?”
“Yes. Now quit being a baby and follow orders. You remember how that works, right?”
“I hate you.”
“What else is new?”
“Also, thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. Call me later and let me know how it goes, okay?”
When Tate hung up and looked back at Lyla, it was clear she’d heard everything. No surprise there—Red had a tendency to speak a bit…forcefully when he got agitated. But it seemed Tate had bigger problems than one misled cop and a loud talker.
“I’m going, too,” Lyla announced firmly.
“The fuck you are,” he fired back.
“Well, I’m not staying here by myself,” she countered calmly. “We’re supposed to stick together, remember?”
She had him there. “Shit.”
“I’m sure they won’t let me sit in with you and the lawyer, but maybe I’ll get a chance to tell Detective Scarletti what a jerk he’s being.”
“Lyla, we want this guy helping you, not pissed at you. I would not do that.”
“I can’t make any promises,” she huffed, and stomped off.
AT A QUARTER to three, the lawyer met Tate and Lyla on the sidewalk outside the station, looking precisely the way Tate had expected one of Red’s attorneys to appear—polished. Rich. Loaded for bear.
He introduced himself as John Davidson, shook both their hands, and marched them inside.
Detective Scarletti separated them immediately, installing Lyla in a waiting room with a gnarly old coffee pot and a TV playing the news, and ushering Tate and the lawyer into a shabby conference room.
The lawyer handed over the timeline that Tate had emailed him an hour earlier. Scarletti smiled and leaned back in his chair, like they were a few old pals shooting the breeze in a pub.
The conversation itself could’ve been lifted from a late-night cop show.
“Thanks for coming in.”
“Happy to help,” Tate said.
“Mind if I ask you a couple of questions?”
“Nope.”
“Mind if I record it?”
“Also no.” He’d talked about all of this on the phone with Davidson not half an hour ago, and so far it was going exactly according to the expected script.
“You ever hear of Ms. Lawson before your buddy hooked you up as her bodyguard?”
“No, I did not,” Tate answered.
What would he have thought, he wondered, if he’d seen Lyla’s photo all those months ago? Would he have even realized what she’d become for him?
Scarletti prodded, “You do much reading in your free time?”
“Not really. It’s kind of hard to lug around a book when you have an M16 in your hand.”
Abruptly, Tate realized it probably wasn’t smart to remind the cop that he was trained to kill. Scarletti had already leaped to enough stupid conclusions as it was.
The detective scribbled something on his notepad, then asked, “Any violent impulses from the PTSD?”
Oh, Christ. Tate gritted out, “I have not been diagnosed with PTSD.” Specifically, anyway.
The lawyer had been taking breaths and holding up his hand with each rapid-fire salvo, but now he gripped Tate’s forearm and squeezed it hard. Tate zipped his lips and sat sullenly, letting the man do his thing.
Mr. Davidson said, “Detective Scarletti, it is our understanding that my client is not a suspect in this case. Is that correct?”
“Yeah. For now.”
“Then we are done here. You have your timeline. If you need anything else, you can request it through my office.” Davidson slapped a business card on the table and yanked Tate out of his seat.
“Catch you later, Captain Monroe,” the cop smirked.
“In your dreams.”
Out in the hallway, the lawyer told Tate, “Please, shut up. Why would you even engage with him? A pissing match does not do you any favors.”
“Because Scarletti’s an asshole, that’s why. Some psycho is out there threatening Lyla, and he’s going to come at me?”
The lawyer rolled his eyes. “Just…let me handle him, okay?”
They came up to the waiting room and looked in. Lyla’s face brightened up immediately and she popped out of her sea
t. “Hey guys, how’d it go?”
TWENTY-EIGHT
“YOUR BODYGUARD HAS a big mouth,” Davidson said drily, “but I think I can work around it. Call me if they reach out to you again, okay? I’ve got to take off now.”
Tate clapped him on the back. “Hey, man, thanks a lot for coming. I really appreciate it.”
Tate and Lyla followed the man out and let him take the first cab that came by. While they strolled down the block watching for another, Lyla leaned in and purred, “His mouth’s not the only thing that’s big.”
Tate grinned, “You got that right, Slick,” then slung his arm around her and walked a few more paces.
His smile faded quickly, however, and soon Tate was staring off down the street, deep in thought again.
“Are you worried about what happened at police headquarters?” Lyla asked him. She hadn’t liked being told to wait in that dingy little room, but she’d despised not giving Scarletti a piece of her mind.
Red’s lawyer had insisted she hold her tongue, however.
Tate shrugged, remarkably sanguine given that his character and honesty were being called into question. “Scarletti’s just grasping at straws.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. Something’s bothering me about that phone call last night.”
He dropped his arm from her shoulders and stepped to the curb, hailing the taxi that was barreling down the avenue. When it squealed to a stop, Tate opened the door for Lyla, then slipped in beside her.
“I know what’s bothering me,” she said. He arched a brow at her, so she explained, “What time he called. I feel like I could sleep for three days. Let’s go home and take a nap.”
“Good plan.” Tate watched the leafy streets of the Upper West Side go by for a minute or two, then asked suddenly, “Why does that fucker call you Delilah?”
“I don’t know,” Lyla answered. It was a detail that had truthfully always bothered her. The weirdo’s use of her real name had always felt invasive, somehow, like a secret he shouldn’t know about her.
“But you said no one calls you that except your mom. Right?”
“And even she doesn’t do it all the time,” Lyla agreed.
Tate had a strange expression on his face. She laced her fingers through his and squeezed a little. “Hey. What’s going on?”
He murmured, “I’m wondering…your mom…” Then Tate shook his head. “When we were at your parents’ house, maybe…”
He fell silent, long enough for Lyla to ask, “Tate?”
He blinked and met her eyes, frowning mightily. “We need to go back there.”
“To my parents’ house?”
“Yeah.” With every word he uttered, Tate got more confident. “There’s something…I’m missing something. But…I think it’s there. Did you call your mom to set up your get-together yet?”
“No,” Lyla said. “I tried to call her while I was waiting for you just now, but there was no reception.”
Tate poked at her purse. “Call her and ask if we can go back there today.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?” she asked him. “I don’t get it. What could my parents have to do with this?”
“I’m not sure, but I’m going to figure it out,” Tate said ominously.
“WOW, AREN’T WE lucky?” Lyla’s mother cried a few hours later. “Two visits in one week? It feels like winning the lottery, doesn’t it, Jim?”
But Lyla’s father was studying Tate’s drawn face and seemed to have already picked up on the fact that this wasn’t a social call.
“I’m not sure they’re here to visit, Peg,” he said, waiting for confirmation from her bodyguard.
And Tate was Lyla’s bodyguard at that moment. His eyes were darting restlessly around, cataloging everything, and his muscles twitched under his skin. Lyla didn’t worry a bit that her folks would suspect there was more to their relationship this time.
“I’m afraid you’re right, sir,” he told her dad. “There is something I need to remember from our visit the other day. It’s right at the edge of my memory, but I can’t quite pull it up. I thought if we came by again, I might be able to figure it out.”
“Seems like sound reasoning.”
“Let’s hope so.”
“Well, maybe we can help,” Lyla’s mom offered. “Was it something about that fun veggie dip we had? I got the recipe out of my magazine. I could show you if you like.”
“No…I don’t think it was that,” Tate smiled.
“How about the car? You looked at our new Buick,” her father reminded him.
Tate shook his head and frowned, looking away. Evidently, the barrage of helpful suggestions was muddying the terrain for him.
“You two are going to stay for dinner, right?” Lyla’s mother asked. “I’m sure whatever it is will pop right into your head any minute. We can sit and have a cocktail until it happens.”
“I make a mean martini,” her dad offered.
Tate grunted.
Lyla held up her hands. “Guys, maybe we can give Tate a little space for a minute, so he can decide if he’s even on the right track. We can probably stay for dinner, but…”
She caught Tate’s eye where he was fidgeting in the foyer, and he gave her a quick, distracted nod.
“Yeah, we’ll stay for dinner,” she said. “But let’s go in the kitchen and leave Tate be. I can help you put something together.”
“No, not you,” Tate barked. “You stay here with me.”
Everyone froze. Then Lyla’s mother, clearly impressed, whispered, “So professional,” to her husband.
Lyla’s father gave Tate another apprehensive once-over, then stuck his hands in his pockets. “Something going on?” he asked.
“Nope!” Lyla chirped. “Tate’s just being his usual thorough self.”
Tate ignored them. His eyes were roaming around, taking in every detail of the entryway and the adjacent sitting room.
Her dad didn’t seem convinced, but he still herded his wife toward the kitchen at the back of the house. “We’ll be in here,” he said over his shoulder. “Let us know if you need anything.”
NOW THAT HE was free to rove, Tate was like a bloodhound let off his leash, retracing all their steps from their visit a few days ago.
It was mildly alarming, watching him go from room to room, announcing what they’d done and what had been said, before shaking his head and moving on.
“Hey, Lyla,” he said finally, once he’d stopped in the front parlor. “A few days ago, when we were looking at our phones, you said you’d talked to your parents.”
“During the book tour, you mean?”
“Yeah. How often did that happen, would you say?”
“Maybe…every other day? Sometimes more.”
Tate stared hard at her. Lyla rushed to explain, “I know that seems like a lot, but I’ve been really busy with this whole Red Devil thing. I haven’t been getting out to see them much, so…”
“You told them where we were, didn’t you?”
“I…don’t remember. Maybe?”
Tate nodded, lost in thought, and moved on.
Lyla tried to hang back so Tate would have space to do his thing, but the more he muttered, the more her nervousness grew. His brow was furrowed and he kept picking up little knickknacks and then putting them back down again.
It didn’t take long before he led her to her bedroom upstairs. Moments after that, Tate was hunched on her little twin bed with its patchwork quilt, leafing slowly through her old yearbook page by page.
“It’s here. I know it’s here,” he told her.
When he got to all the signatures Lyla’s friends had left on the back pages, Tate stopped and read each one out loud.
Hearing the childish sentiments spoken without a hint of his usual teasing tone made Lyla wince. She considered hiding in her closet until all the keep in touchs and you’ve always been there for mes were over.
Tate was so serious and intent on hi
s task, though, and she wanted to see where he was going with this.
He reached Brett Jones’s inscription about halfway through. “Delilah. Guess you got it wrong, Twerp,” Tate read, “I am special. I’m everything—you’ll see.”
Tate stopped and stared up at her, his finger tapping on the fifteen-year-old scrawl impatiently. “This. What is this about?” he demanded.
Lyla sighed and rolled her eyes. “Ugh. I’d forgotten about that.”
“Why’d he write this?”
“Because Brett was a bully. When I was a freshman, he was a senior. He wouldn’t leave me and my friends alone. One day I just snapped. I told him he was nothing but a punk and was never going to amount to jack shit in life. Brett was so pissed, and guess what—somehow he got his hands on my yearbook and managed to write that in there for me to find.”
“What a dick,” Tate said.
“Tell me about it. I wish either my parents or his would move away from here, so I’d never have to hear a word about him again.”
Tate stared down at the page, nodding. He obviously wasn’t ready to move on yet, however. “Except…look at the words. Don’t they remind you of anyone?”
Lyla’s eyes tripped over that coincidental string of syllables. You got it wrong. “No way,” she scoffed.
“Why not?” Tate wondered. “He lives close enough to Manhattan. Why not?”
Lyla sank down beside him. “Tate, Brett was an ass a long time ago. But you saw the way he is now—I don’t even think he can drive anymore. How would he get anywhere?”
Tate was undeterred. “So? He could take an Uber.”
Lyla rolled her eyes. “What is it with you and Uber?”
“Okay, well…someone could have driven him around. Like…what about his kooky parents?”
“They wouldn’t.”
“Wouldn’t they? You yourself said they think he can do no wrong. Even now, you said.”
Lyla had said that, but still—it was too far-fetched to make any sense whatsoever. The cops were looking for a disgruntled fan, not some annoying guy she’d known in high school.
The Hero Was Handsome (Triple Threat Book 3) Page 26