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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

An hour later, Doug and I were set up in the office sharing a pizza and poring over the data that Margot had accessed by not necessarily legal means on Theo Vasilios.

“Let’s start with financials,” I said. “It’s been mentioned more than once that the Vasilios men like to throw money around. Let’s see where Theo was throwing it. I want to get through this stuff before Cole and Martinez show up.”

“Maybe Jack will get lucky and we’ll be able to do this aboveboard by the time they get here.”

“Here’s hoping,” I said, eyeing the last piece of pepperoni.

“You might as well take it,” Doug said. “We can always get more later.”

“Thanks,” I said, taking the pizza.

“Whoa, looks like Theo was the sole beneficiary of his grandfather’s estate. His name was also Theodore Vasilios, and it looks like he was part of the Greek royal family up until 1974 when the Greek government did away with all royal titles and positions. Having no title didn’t stop him from building wealth though. He was a very successful businessman internationally. He died when Theo was only twenty-three years old and all of his assets went to Theo to be held in a trust until he reached the age of thirty-five.”

“That’s a long time to wait when you’re twenty-three,” I said.

“Looks like he received the full amount when he turned thirty-five, plus all real estate holdings and business ventures,” Doug said. “He’s partnered with several businesses himself in the last ten years, but it looks like Theo doesn’t have the golden touch like his grandfather did. Most of the businesses have failed or are fledgling. If he’d been good at it he’d be pushing billionaire status.”

“Who inherits if Theo dies?” I asked.

“That information isn’t available,” Doug said. “At least not electronically. Theo’s attorney is in Greece, but it looks like he got on a flight and is scheduled to land at Reagan International about ten o’clock tonight.”

“Other than business has Theo had any unusual spending?” I asked.

“He paid too much for that house in Newcastle, and he purchased a couple of other homes—one in Santa Monica and another in London. He was paying Chloe ten grand a month to manage his businesses. He spent a ridiculous amount of money on shoes and suits, and also a lot on transatlantic flights to London. It looks like he went regularly about every six weeks and would stay for a week.”

“Even after he met Chloe?” I asked.

“Yes,” Doug said.

“Did Chloe ever travel with him?”

“Once,” Doug said, pulling up flight logs and credit card receipts. “Looks like she stayed at the Shangri-La.”

“I thought Theo had his own place in London?”

“He does,” Doug said, shrugging. “Chloe checked into the hotel under her name and identification. I don’t know if Theo stayed there with her or not. His signature isn’t on any of the restaurant bills or the spa.”

“Interesting,” I said, trying to bring something to the surface of my memory, but I wasn’t sure what it was. And then it came to me. “The ex-wife. Nicholas said something about Theo’s ex-wife. Apparently they’ve maintained a good relationship since their divorce, but he mentioned that she’d flown in from London for the wedding.”

“Margot flagged her on the list,” Doug said. “Vivica Anders Vasilios.” Doug whistled when her picture came on the screen. “Holy cow. She’s a former Miss Universe. Originally from Denmark. It looks like she met Theo at the University of St Andrews in Scotland while they were students there. They married a year later in a very lavish ceremony in Greece. The same year Theo’s grandfather died. They were married for eight years. No children.”

“Did she ever remarry?” I asked.

“No, but no reason to,” Doug said. “She made out like a bandit in the divorce, and not because the court ordered it. Theo made sure she was set for life.”

“Maybe a guilt offering for his sins,” I said. “Apparently she’s got a house on Dupont Circle. Jack reached out to let her know we need to speak with her. I’m guessing it’s on the to-do list for tomorrow.”

“Sign me up for that trip,” Doug said. “She’s someone who deserves to be seen in person.”

I smacked him lightly on the back of the head. “Stop thinking with your hormones for a second.”

“I’m sixteen,” he said, grinning. “I don’t know what else I’m supposed to think with.”

I laughed and said, “Nicholas told us that Theo had lost his way for a time and that Vivica had been very patient with him.”

“Lost his way how?”

“That’s the big question. Could be drugs or alcohol. Or something that would cause a grown man to get a tattoo on the bottom of his foot.”

“Like the Illuminati,” Doug said.

“Does that mean you found the tattoo in the SMT database?” I asked.

“Nope,” he said. “There’s nothing anything even remotely like it that I can find.”

The doorbell rang and I looked at the time. “Shoot,” I said. “Put everything on Theo Vasilios away for now. That’s going to be Cole and Martinez.”

“They won’t care if we’re digging deep into the victim,” Doug said.

“Yeah, but sometimes it’s better to not put people in the position of lying for you if they’re ever subpoenaed to testify. Don’t worry. Jack will get the State Department to release those records.”

* * *

I’d opened the door expecting Cole and Martinez, but I was surprised to see Dickie on our doorstep again.

“Hey,” I said. “What’s wrong? Are you sick?”

He laughed but there was no humor in it. “No,” he said. “I just decided to pick today for whatever reason to quit drinking.”

“That’s great,” I said. “I was just about to make some coffee.”

“God, no,” he said. “You make terrible coffee. At least let me do it.” And he led the way into the kitchen, making himself right at home.

“Jack had to run down a lead on a case,” I said carefully, not mentioning Chloe’s name. “He should be back soon.”

“I didn’t come here to see Jack,” he said. “I came to talk to you.”

My brows rose in surprise at that bit of information. “Me?” I asked, watching as Dickie moved around our kitchen with practiced ease. His expensive clothes were wrinkled, and his normally perfect hair was disheveled. His hands were steady though, methodically measuring coffee grounds. I studied his profile, trying to see the boy I’d known hidden in the man he’d become.

“You’ve always told me the truth,” he said quietly. “Even when I didn’t want to hear it. I need that right now.”

I leaned against the counter and crossed my arms. “Okay.”

Dickie turned to face me, his eyes red rimmed and haunted. “How messed up am I? On a scale of one to ten?”

“Is this some weird intervention in reverse?” I asked.

The coffee maker started to burble and hiss behind him, filling the kitchen with the rich aroma of the good beans Jack kept in the freezer.

“I sat in my car for three hours before I drove here,” Dickie said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I had a bottle of Macallan 25 on the passenger seat. I kept picking it up and putting it back down. It would have been so easy to just…” He rubbed his face, and for a moment he looked impossibly old.

“Dickie—”

“Do you know what my father said to me when my divorce was finalized?” he asked. “He didn’t even look up from his newspaper. He just said, ‘Harlowes make terrible husbands. Sign a prenup for your next one.’”

I winced. I’d met Dickie’s father enough times to know the ruthless banker behind the polished facade.

“My grandfather drank himself to death,” Dickie continued. “My father is working on it. And here I am, following the same path like it’s the only one I know how to walk.”

I moved to the cabinet and pulled down two mugs. “Did you ever talk to anyone after your divorce?”

“What, like a shrink?” He laughed that hollow laugh again. “Harlowes don’t do therapy. We buy bigger houses, faster cars, and younger women.”

“How’s that working out for you?” I asked, pouring the coffee.

“About as well as you’d expect,” he said, accepting the mug I handed him. “I thought Chloe was different. I thought I was different with her.” His voice cracked. “Now she’s gone and it was all a lie, and I’m just…here. Still the same screwed-up rich kid who can’t figure out how to be a man.”

I guided him to the kitchen table, and we sat. The fading sun made shadows dance across the wood floor.

“You know what hurts the most?” he asked. “I keep thinking if I’d been better—more like Jack, maybe—she might have trusted me enough to really tell me what was going on. I might have been able to protect her.”

“You don’t know that,” I said gently.

“I do know that,” he insisted. “She didn’t trust me because I’m not trustworthy. I’ve spent my whole life proving that to everyone. I’m unreliable. I drink too much. I sleep around. I use my money to paper over all my problems.” He stared into his coffee. “And the worst part is, I like being that guy. It’s easy. Comfortable. There are no expectations.”

“Dickie,” I said, reaching across the table to touch his hand. “You came here today. You left the bottle in the car. That counts for something.”

He looked up, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “Does it? Because from where I’m sitting, it feels like too little, too late.”

“It’s never too late to change,” I said. “Trust me, I know something about family legacies.”

He nodded slightly. We both knew what I meant—the shadow my parents had cast over my life, the darkness I’d fought to escape.

“How did you do it?” he asked. “How did you become…you, instead of them?”

I considered my answer carefully. “I stopped waiting for permission to be better. I decided that their sins weren’t mine to carry. But mostly, I let people help me. Jack, his parents, you guys?—”

“I’ve never let anyone help me,” Dickie admitted. “Not really. I’ve let people bail me out, clean up my messes, but actually help me? That would mean admitting I needed it.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m sitting in your kitchen at—” he checked his watch, “—five o’clock on a Sunday afternoon, stone-cold sober for the first time in…I don’t even know how long. And I’m terrified.”

“Of what?”

“Of finding out who I really am without all the…artifice. What if there’s nothing there?”

I reached out and took his hand. “Richmond Dexter Harlowe, I’ve known you for most of your life. Before the fancy cars and the designer suits. Before you learned how to charm your way into any woman’s bed. You were kind. You were funny. You were the one who helped me pass Ms. Tompkins’s computer science class when I was failing miserably.”

“That was a lifetime ago,” he said, but I could see a flicker of something in his eyes—recognition, maybe.

“That person is still in there,” I insisted. “And I think you came here today because you want to find him again.”

Dickie’s eyes filled with tears. “I don’t know how.”

“You start by asking for help,” I said. “Real help. Professional help.”

He tensed. “My father?—”

“Isn’t the one who has to live your life,” I cut in. “What do you want, Dickie? Not what your father wants, not what the Harlowe legacy demands. What do you want?”

He was quiet for so long I thought he might not answer. When he did, his voice was small, almost childlike. “I want to not hate the man I see in the mirror. I want to be someone who could have deserved Chloe. I want to be the man she could have loved. I want to stop drinking just to make it through the day.” His shoulders slumped. “I’m so tired, Jaye.”

I squeezed his hand. “I know a place. It’s discreet. Private. The kind of place where even a Harlowe could go without making the society pages.”

“You think they can fix me?” he asked, a hint of his old self-mockery in his voice.

“I think they can help you fix yourself,” I said. “But you’d have to be all in. No half measures.”

He took a deep, unsteady breath. “What about the investigation? Jack told me to stay in town.”

“Did you make a formal statement?” I asked.

“This morning,” he said. “With my attorney like Jack said.”

“Good, that’ll make it easier. I’ll talk to Jack. He loves you and will want the best thing for you. And this is the best thing.”

Dickie stared down at our joined hands, then back up at me. For a moment, I caught a glimpse of the boy I’d known—earnest, uncertain, but with a good heart beneath all the bravado.

“How do I start?” he asked.

“I’ll make some calls,” I said. “And then you’ll need to pack a bag.”

The misery in his eyes broke my heart. Along with the self-loathing was a grief so deep it was palpable. A grief over the woman he’d never get a chance to love.

“Dickie,” I said. “I believe Chloe did love you.” I held up a hand before he could argue. “No, wait. Listen. We’ve uncovered some things in this investigation I can’t really go into, but we believe Chloe felt she had no choice but to marry Theo. There are witnesses who say they knew of your relationship with her, that Theo knew about it too and he didn’t care. Because he wasn’t in love with her. But she did believe that he could help keep her safe.

“The last time the two of you were together, I don’t believe it was her being cruel. I believe it was her loving you as best she could and saying goodbye. Maybe you and Chloe had more in common than you realized, both of you trapped by the pain of your past and unsure how to break free.”

Tears had been trailing slowly down his cheeks, dripping onto the table.

“It’s easier thinking she might have loved me, despite being me,” he said. “So thank you for that.”

“I promise to be here, every step of the way,” I said. “The rest is up to you.”

I felt something shift between us—not just friendship, but a deeper understanding. We’d both faced our demons. Maybe now, finally, Dickie was ready to face his too.