Page 9

CHAPTER NINE

“I’m fine,” I said the following morning.

I wasn’t. Not really. I felt like I’d been run over by a truck. But at least I didn’t have anything left in my stomach to throw up.

“You don’t look fine,” Jack said, squatting down next to me.

“No, it’s passed. I promise. Just help me up.”

I was laid out on the bathroom floor, so I reached out both hands so Jack could pull me to my feet.

“This might seem weird, but I really hate the smell of all of our hand soap,” I said. “So it’d be great if we could throw it all away. It makes me sick.”

“The smell of soap makes you sick?” he asked.

“Just the smell of that soap,” I said. “Other soap is fine. I think because it has a floral scent. Floral scents make me nauseated.”

His lips twitched. “So we shouldn’t take any trips to the botanical gardens? Or the garden section of Home Depot?”

“That would be a bad idea,” I said. “I think I’m good for coffee now.”

“Why don’t you start with water and work your way up to coffee?”

“Because we’re already behind schedule. I thought you wanted to talk to Theo’s parents this morning.”

“It’s barely nine o’clock on a Sunday,” he said. “We’ve got time.” He handed me a bottle of water that I hadn’t noticed him bring into the bathroom with him. “Why don’t you take a shower, and by the time you finish I’ll have coffee made for you. And you should probably put something in your stomach. I’ll make you some toast.”

“What about Dickie?” I asked.

“He can make his own breakfast,” Jack said. “He’s a grown man.”

“Are we just going to leave him in the house?”

The corner of Jack’s mouth quirked in a smile. “Want me to toss him out in the yard?”

“You’re a real riot this morning,” I said.

“Thank you,” he said. “Just for that I’ll bring your coffee up to you while you shower.”

“Wow,” I said. “That kind of service will get you lucky.”

“I’ll take payment later,” he said, grinning. “After you brush your teeth.”

I choked on a laugh as he disappeared to go make my coffee.

* * *

Theo Vasilios’s parents were staying at the Briarly Country Club in Arlington, Virginia. The Briarly was one of the oldest country clubs in the nation. It had started as a men’s athletics club in the mid-1800s, and had morphed into one of the most elite, and expensive, clubs in the country. The original stone lodge still stood, and had been added to over the last couple of centuries to provide three floors of rustic opulence to its patrons. Even from the outside, the place reeked of old money and power—the kind of establishment that required not just wealth to join, but connections that went back generations.

“How come you’re not a member here?” I asked Jack as he showed his badge to the gate guard, who scrutinized it with the suspicion of a man accustomed to keeping undesirables at bay.

“Because I hate golf,” he said. “And if you have to pay the average American salary every year to be a member of something it should have activities I can enjoy.”

“I hear they have pickleball now,” I said.

“You want to pay fifty thousand a year to play pickleball?” he asked, eyebrow raised as we were finally waved through the ornate iron gates.

“Not when you put it that way,” I said. “Maybe there’s a place closer to home. I’ve seen a couple of reels of people playing. It looks like fun.”

Jack shook his head and said, “I can see through you a mile away. You watched videos of all the old people playing and figured it’s a sport you might actually be able to win at.”

“Hey, I take offense to that,” I said, eyes narrowed. “I’m a good athlete. Don’t you remember how you got that scar on your eyebrow?”

“Not really,” he said. “I remember you tripping over your own feet coming into home plate and then it was lights out.”

“That was the most beautiful slide you’ve ever seen in your life,” I contested. “You’re just mad because I was called safe and we won the game.”

“I’ve heard there’s memory loss with pregnancy,” Jack said. “I’m just going to chalk this up as one of those moments. Read the map and tell me where the Madison House is located.”

I took the postcard-sized map that the gate guard had given us, and looked at the winding road and the different buildings around the grounds. It was a large property with a dozen or so cabins where members or dignitaries could stay. Ambassador and Mrs. Vasilios had been assigned to Madison House, tucked away on the opposite side of the lake away from the busiest areas of the country club. Privacy for the grieving parents, or isolation to keep them from prying ears—I wondered which it was.

We’d taken Jack’s Tahoe to Arlington since it was an official visit, and Jack pulled into a circle drive in front of a two-story stone house that was made of the same stone as the main lodge. The lawn was well manicured and flowers bloomed riotously in the gardens, a stark contrast to the darkness we’d come to discuss.

“It looks so European,” I said, eyeing the two men in black suits who were heading toward our car with purposeful strides. The first had a military bearing that screamed American Special Forces, while the second moved with the fluid grace of a trained killer. “And it comes with its own welcome party.”

We got out of the car and Jack flashed his badge quickly because the men looked like they’d be more than happy to tackle us to the ground. Their hands hovered near concealed weapons, and I didn’t miss the communication earpieces they both wore. This wasn’t standard diplomatic security—this was the kind of protection you hired when your life was in danger.

“The ambassador and his wife spoke to the police yesterday,” said the larger of the two men. His voice was flat, his eyes constantly scanning the surroundings even as he addressed us. Former military for sure, probably Special Forces based on the faded tattoo partially visible at his wrist when he moved.

“That was our chaplain and an officer coming to break the news of their son’s death,” Jack said easily, though I could feel the tension radiating from him. “Dr. Graves and I are conducting the investigation into their son’s and daughter-in-law’s murders. We need to ask them a few questions. They were told we’d be arriving this morning.”

The guard grunted and turned to head toward the house, and the other one took over. This man was smaller, skimming just under six feet, and his hair was dark and pulled back into a stubby ponytail at his neck. His eyes were cold, calculating, like he was sizing us up as potential threats rather than law enforcement.

“You have twenty minutes,” he said in an accent I couldn’t quite place, but it seemed Slavic in nature. The accent was mild but unmistakable, like he’d spent years training it away. “The ambassador is very busy today.”

“We won’t take up much of their time,” Jack assured him, and we followed the man into the house. I noticed how his jacket shifted as he walked—he was carrying at least two weapons that I could spot, probably more that I couldn’t.

“The ambassador is in the library,” the guard said, leading us down a long hallway.

The house was beautiful—if unoriginal in design—and it looked like the kind of stately home a wealthy grandmother would decorate, with ornately carved wood furniture and floral patterns on the rugs.

The door to the library was open and we were ushered inside to see Ambassador Vasilios seated behind his desk and his wife on a pale yellow settee in front of the window. The guard stationed himself just inside the door, his eyes never leaving us.

“Ambassador,” Jack said, reaching out to shake the man’s hand.

“Call me Nicholas,” he said cordially, though his smile never reached his eyes. “This is my wife, Cecilia. Please, come in and have a seat.”

Nicholas was a handsome man somewhere in his mid-seventies, but he looked to be in good health. He had strong shoulders and a straight posture, and he looked very much like his son. His hair was fully silver and his eyes almost black—the kind of eyes that could hide thoughts and intentions behind a mask of diplomatic courtesy. He was dressed in gray golf pants and an expensive-looking polo, but his casual attire couldn’t disguise the power he wielded.

I moved over to greet Cecilia and saw her eyes were swollen from crying, but she’d done her best to conceal it with makeup. She seemed frail next to the rigidity of her husband—a petite woman only an inch or so over five feet. Her hair was black as coal with not a trace of silver, pulled back harshly from her face and coiled at her nape. And her face had the unlined grace of a habitual Botox user. She was also dressed casually in beige linen pants and a matching top. When she looked up at me, the vacancy in her gaze was alarming—pupils constricted to pinpoints.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I told her.

She nodded thanks mechanically, but didn’t say anything. There was a vacantness in her eyes that told me she’d medicated herself heavily before our meeting.

“Please,” Nicholas said. “Have a seat.”

He gestured to the two leather chairs in front of the desk he stood behind, and Jack and I both sat. I noticed that Nicholas had positioned us with our backs to the security guard—a subtle psychological tactic to put us at a disadvantage.

“Have you found out who did this to our son?” he asked, his fingers drumming softly on the polished desktop. The rhythm seemed casual, but there was tension in his movements.

“My team is combing through all of the surveillance and the logs, and we’re running down leads,” Jack said. His voice was neutral but I could hear the careful calculation in each word.

“So, no,” Nicholas said with a sigh. “You haven’t discovered who is responsible. I hope you don’t take offense, but I don’t have a lot of confidence in local law enforcement to see my son brought to justice.”

“None taken,” Jack said cordially. “Unfortunately, your son’s murder isn’t the first we’ve come across. The team that is investigating is highly skilled.”

“Hmm,” Nicholas said, pursing his lips. And then he pulled a file from the top of his desk and dropped it in front of Jack with a deliberate thud. “Would either of you care for a drink? Brandy? Coffee?”

“No, thank you,” Jack answered. He hadn’t picked up the file folder to see what was inside, but the top flap had opened when Nicholas had dropped it and the contents had spilled out.

The bottom dropped out of my stomach when I saw the newspaper clippings. There were several pictures of my parents and the crash site where they’d faked their deaths and substituted two other bodies to be found in the fiery wreckage. Edging out from one of the clippings I saw Cole’s academy picture. The file was very thick, and I knew Nicholas had done a deep dive on every one of us.

Jack didn’t take the bait, didn’t even glance at the file. “You’ve been busy,” he said mildly.

“The State Department has the adequate resources and experiences to find out what happened to my son.” Nicholas’s voice remained calm, but something dangerous flickered in his eyes.

“With all due respect,” Jack said. “I’ve worked with some of those guys at the State Department. I’ll stand with my current team any day of the week.”

“I don’t mind using my connections,” Nicholas said, his voice never changing timbre. I could see why he’d have made an effective diplomat in the negotiating room—there was steel beneath the surface calm. “I can always make a call to the governor. You have political aspirations, don’t you, Sheriff Lawson?”

“I actually got a call from Tom this morning,” Jack said easily. “We had a nice talk. The governor’s ball is coming up next month. And no, I don’t have political aspirations.”

Jack might not have political aspirations, but he’d been neck deep in politics his whole life. Jack came from money. The kind of money that bought influence and recognition. Jack’s father had been asked more than once to run for a Senate seat and had always turned it down, not liking the games that were played and the favors that were demanded to actually sit in the seat and represent the people. Jack felt the same way. But that didn’t mean he didn’t know people in high places.

Those same people saw a future in Jack and wanted him at the helm. We were constantly being invited to things I had no desire to go to. But Jack said it was good to keep those connections just to make people wonder what future plans are. That way they’d always have a little bit of fear of what you know about them and what they might owe you later down the road.

Behind Nicholas, Cecilia’s gaze drifted to the window, her fingers absently worrying at the edge of her sleeve. For a moment, I saw lucidity flash across her features—a glimpse of fear quickly masked.

“You’re not curious to know more about your…team?” Nicholas asked, gesturing to the folder that lay open between us, the newspaper photos of my parents’ deaths clearly visible.

Jack smiled and steepled his fingers in front of him. “Like I said, I stand with my team. They’re good. What can you tell me about Chloe Matthews?”

Nicholas stared at Jack, and I couldn’t tell if there was respect or aggravation in his eyes. Maybe a little of both. His fingers stopped their drumming, and he leaned back slightly, reassessing his approach.

“Ms. Matthews was a gold-digging whore,” Nicholas said, the crude words jarring in his cultured voice. “If you’ll excuse my language. His mother and I did not approve. Theo’s first wife, Vivica, was a wonderful woman—well bred and well educated. She spoke five languages, and she would have helped elevate Theo in political circles.”

At the mention of Chloe, I noticed Cecilia’s hand tighten on the arm of the settee, her knuckles going white despite her drugged state.

“How long ago did they divorce?” Jack asked.

“It’s been probably fifteen years now,” Nicholas said, and a shadow passed across his face.

“So Vivica wouldn’t have had hard feelings about his remarriage?”

“Of course not,” Nicholas said, too quickly. “She was more than happy to fly in from London to attend the wedding. That’s where she lives full-time. She and Theo stayed on friendly terms, and Cecilia and I see her at family gatherings. Vivica was very patient with Theo, so I cannot blame her for the divorce. His mother and I spoiled him. He was our only son. And he was not ready to be a good husband and father when he married Vivica. There was a time when Theo went astray. Over the last several years he’d finally come back to us. Come to his senses.”

The way Nicholas emphasized come back to us seemed significant. I filed it away to examine later.

I could see Cecilia out of the corner of my eye, frozen like a statue in her drug-induced state. She’d not moved a muscle during the entire conversation, except for that brief moment of lucidity when Chloe’s name was mentioned. Her silence spoke volumes.

“When did you first meet Chloe?” Jack asked.

“At the engagement party in January,” he said. “I could only roll my eyes the first time I saw them together. She was young enough to be his daughter.” Nicholas shook his head in disgust. “She was certainly not what we’d been expecting. Cecilia noticed the ring on Chloe’s finger. It had belonged to Cecilia’s mother. Theo had asked Vivica to return it when they divorced and she graciously did. Seeing the ring on that tramp’s finger hurt us both deeply and I argued with Theo about it.” His lips pursed into a fine line and he looked down. “I regret that now.”

I watched the security guard out of the corner of my eye as he shifted his stance slightly, one hand moving closer to his concealed weapon. Interesting reaction to what should have been a straightforward answer.

“Do you know anything about Chloe’s background? Where she came from?” Jack pressed, and I saw a flicker of something—alarm?—in Nicholas’s eyes.

“I don’t,” he said, the lie as smooth as polished glass. “I do know she was hiding from something or someone. Theo utilized my resources to get her legal documents. We argued about that as well as it was my reputation on the line and not his.

“Theo also increased his personal security.” Nicholas opened his desk drawer and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, tapping one out and then putting it between his lips to light it. He inhaled deeply and let out a long stream of smoke with the agitation he’d been holding inside. The action seemed calculated, a diversion to hide the subtle tremor in his hands.

“He was spending a fortune on her,” he continued, smoke curling around his words. “He’d moved her into that ridiculous house in Newcastle he’d bought.” He laughed without humor. “He and I argued about the house too. We seemed to do nothing but argue. We always rubbed each other the wrong way. Theo grew up in palaces, went to the best boarding schools, and was given every opportunity. And he always did his best to do the opposite of whatever was expected of him. So he bought a house in some yuppie, unimportant city and put a child in charge of his businesses. But he told me he wanted to have a regular life. What the hell does that even mean?”

The bitterness in his voice was palpable. Something more than a father’s disapproval of his son’s choices—there was fear beneath his contempt.

“Theo had a tattoo on the bottom of his foot,” I said, dropping the information casually, watching for his reaction. “A series of dots. Do you know what they might mean?”

Nicholas’s cigarette paused halfway to his lips, the only break in his composure. Behind him, I saw Cecilia’s vacant gaze snap into focus for just a moment, her eyes widening in unmistakable recognition.

“A tattoo?” Nicholas said haughtily, recovering quickly. “As far as I know Theo had no tattoos. But if he did I’m sure he was influenced into making the poor decision to put permanent marks on his body.”

Another lie. Nicholas knew exactly what that tattoo meant. His eyes betrayed him, a flicker of calculation that lasted only a fraction of a second.

“Did Theo talk to you about any specific incidents that caused him to increase his security?” Jack asked.

“No,” Nicholas said, but his cigarette ash trembled slightly. “I wish he would have. But I could tell he was worried. A father knows these things about his son, even when they don’t always see eye to eye.”

“If Theo was so worried why didn’t he bring security with him to The Mad King?” Jack asked, his tone conversational but his eyes sharp.

“He did,” Nicholas said, and I remembered the pattern of Chloe’s gunshot wounds matching the tattoo. “His driver used to be my head of security. Max Ortega is his name.”

“He drove them from Briarly to The Mad King?” Jack asked.

“Yes,” Nicholas said, the smoke from his cigarette creating a haze between us.

“What time did Theo and Chloe leave the reception?”

“It was around eleven o’clock,” Nicholas said, and I noticed he checked his watch—a nervous tic.

Jack got to his feet and I followed suit, trying to ignore the open file folder that was lying at my feet. “We appreciate your time, Ambassador Vasilios,” he said.

“We would like our son’s body released to us so we can prepare for burial,” Nicholas said.

“I should be able to release him within the next forty-eight hours,” I told him. “My office will be in touch as soon as he’s been cleared for release.”

“Are you sure you won’t reconsider handing off the investigation?” Nicholas asked Jack. “It would be in your best interest.” The words carried the unmistakable weight of threat beneath their diplomatic delivery.

“I don’t think it would,” Jack said, measuring the man who stood across from him. “We’ll find out what happened to your son. I’m tenacious like that. The State Department is in the business of burying secrets. But I’ve learned in my career the only way for secrets to die is for them to lose their power by being exposed.”

“Well,” Nicholas said, his smile not reaching his eyes. “We know where we both stand.”

Jack nodded and we left the room. The security guard with the ponytail met us outside the library door and led us out of the house, his hand never straying far from his concealed weapon. Once we were back in the sunlight I was surprised to see the other guard leaning against Jack’s Tahoe, his arms crossed over his chest and a smile I wouldn’t exactly call friendly on his face.

“Thanks for watching the car for me,” Jack said, clicking the remote so the Tahoe unlocked. I was guessing security guard man wasn’t used to men like Jack because he looked surprised when Jack kept walking toward him and opened the door for me to get in the passenger side.

Jack didn’t intimidate. But I could see the calculation in his eyes—he’d noted the guard’s stance, the placement of his weapons, the way his partner had positioned himself behind us. Jack was taking stock, planning for contingencies.

I prided myself on being unflappable, but when that file folder had tumbled open, a surge of anxiety threatened to overwhelm me. For a moment, I’d fought the urge to run and not look back. It hadn’t just been intimidation that had gripped me—it had been the lingering shame of my past. That heavy burden I thought I’d buried had resurfaced with a vengeance, making me want to turn my back on it all.

I’ve been told that healing is a process. I guess I’m still healing.

I got into the Tahoe and was proud of myself for not flinching when the door shut behind me. The security guard still leaned against the vehicle but had turned so his eyes were always on Jack.

“I’m sure we’ll see each other again,” Jack said, and there was steel beneath his casual tone. He walked around the Tahoe and got into the driver’s seat. He started the car, and the man finally moved, but he didn’t stop staring at Jack, memorizing him.

I waited until we’d passed through the gates of the Briarly before I spoke. It had taken that long before my heart had stopped thudding in my chest.

“Well, that was terrifying,” I said. “What was that all about?”

“Just a little intimidation from the ambassador so we’ll hand the case over to another agency,” Jack said. “The question is why. Is it because he cares too much, or because he’s trying to have something buried forever? Did you notice Mrs. Vasilios’s reaction when we mentioned the tattoo?”

“I know one thing,” I said. “He was lying to us about Chloe. He knows exactly where she came from. You could see the fear in his eyes. And those security guards weren’t just for show—they’re killers.”

Jack nodded grimly. “And they were watching us the entire time, like they were committing our faces to memory.”

I shivered, remembering the cold eyes of the man with the ponytail. “For what purpose?”

“That,” Jack said, “is what worries me.”