Page 5

CHAPTER FIVE

“I swear, man, half the file was redacted. Does that mean he used to be a field agent?”

“No idea. You’re the veteran, you’d know more about this sort of thing than me.”

It’s late Saturday afternoon. Rav and Will are on the way to the Palace Hotel, where ángel Morillo is expecting them. They’d considered asking him to come down to the station, but they’re still in “friendly chat” territory, and besides, given what the feds told them about the threats against Vale, Rav is reluctant to pull the bodyguard from his post if he can avoid it.

Will has “Lights Out” playing on the car stereo, and Rav turns it up. “Listen to this. They start playing with the time signature here. It’s really quite complicated.”

“Time signature?”

“You know, how many beats in a measure, which note gets the beat.”

“Sorry, we didn’t cover that in football practice.”

“You were on the football team? I’m shocked.” He is not shocked. Will looks like an off-brand Tom Brady.

“I suppose you were in the school band?”

“If only. His Lordship didn’t approve of extracurricular activities.”

Will grunts. “One of those, huh? A buddy of mine had a dad like yours.”

Rav seriously doubts it.

“What about your mom? Was she strict too?”

“On the contrary, she prided herself on being the fun parent. Mainly because she knew it would piss my father off.”

“I guess it’s easy to be the fun parent when your kid lives on the other side of the ocean.”

“Quite. Especially when you lead a glamorous lifestyle. Film premieres, fashion shows, celebrity weekends in the Hamptons. I lived for those summers in New York. In London, the closest thing I had to a life outside school was piano lessons, and that certainly wasn’t my choice. More of a box to be ticked in the toff’s guide to modern parenting.”

“Were you any good?”

“At the piano? God, no. The entire experience was torture for all concerned, but for some reason I retained the theory. Probably why I enjoy classical music as much as I do.”

“That, and you’re a huge snob.”

“There is that.”

They arrive at the hotel—the valet deadpans her assurance that she’ll take very good care of Will’s Golf—and take the elevator to the penthouse. The bodyguard is waiting for them, and he escorts them to the sunroom, where they’ll be doing the interview. They walk in just as Jack Vale is crossing the room, barefoot and drinking a sparkling water; he pauses, visibly surprised to see them. “Um,” he says. “Do we have an appointment?”

Rav tries not to stare, but it’s hard. Seeing someone in the flesh after days of reading about them online tends to result in staring. Especially when they look that good in jeans and a plain crewneck. In a disorienting blend of his two current obsessions, Rav finds himself studying Vale’s shoulders, trying to decide if they’re square enough to belong to the suspect in the hoodie.

“Sorry, boss,” the bodyguard says. “It’s actually me they’re here to see.”

“Oh.” There’s an awkward pause. Vale’s glance strays to Rav. “I like your suit.”

Rav looks down at himself, as though he’s only just now realizing he happens to be wearing his most killer ensemble, an impeccably tailored cobalt-blue number with a crisp white shirt and spanky white trainers. It’s so on point even Tom Hiddleston would be envious. “Thank you,” he says offhandedly.

“Didn’t your people tell you we were coming?” Will asks.

“They never tell me anything,” Vale says with a strained laugh.

On cue, the harried assistant rushes into the room. “Oh, you’re here? I’m so sorry, Jack, I was just coming to tell you? Mo said you wouldn’t mind? You’re early!” This last is directed accusingly at Rav. He consults his watch, which confirms that they are not, in fact, early.

“They operate on showbiz time around here,” Morillo says in an undertone, and Will snorts.

“Apologies for intruding on your space, Mr. Vale,” Rav says. “We wanted to minimize the impact on your security arrangements in these tense times.”

Vale’s smile vanishes. “I appreciate it.”

“On that note, you’ll have to excuse us. If you and I exchange another word your lawyer is liable to come after us with something sharp.”

He can feel Vale’s gaze following them as they arrange themselves around the coffee table. He’ll be wondering why the police want to speak to his bodyguard, but that’s between the two of them.

Morillo unbuttons his suit jacket as he sits down, offering a glimpse of his sidearm. They’ve pulled the paperwork on it already, and it is indeed a .40 caliber, a Glock 22. All aboveboard, of course. He’s got another firearm registered to him as well, a 9mm Sig Sauer. Rav hopes he’s confident with it, since it’s about to be his only option. “I won’t beat about the bush, Mr. Morillo. We’ll be needing the Glock.”

The bodyguard gives him a long, calculating look. “You got a warrant?”

“We don’t need one if we suspect the weapon was involved in a crime.”

There’s the sound of Velcro tearing as the bodyguard takes out his sidearm. “So Vanderford was offed with a .40 cal, huh? Interesting.” He ejects the cartridge, snaps the round out of the chamber, and sets it on the table between them.

“We thought so.” Will puts on a latex glove and carefully places the weapon, the magazine, and the loose round in a plastic evidence bag.

“How long’s it gonna take for ballistics to come back?”

“Are you in a hurry, Mr. Morillo?” Rav says.

“It’s Mo, and yes. I can use my Siggie in the meantime, but I’m more comfortable with the Glock. I don’t like being without it, given everything that’s going down.”

“Fair enough. We’ll do our best to get it back to you as soon as possible. Presuming it’s clean, of course.”

“It will be.” Morillo studies him with that shrewd gaze again. “The media keep using the words ‘execution-style’ to describe the murder, so I guess you’re thinking a pro. Maybe the close protection guy, acting on the orders of his boss, who had a beef with the victim. And oh, look, he just happens to carry a Glock 22. Am I warm?”

“You’re red-hot,” Rav says flatly.

If the bodyguard is worried, he doesn’t let on. “Couple of problems with your theory, though. Do I look like the kind of guy who can waltz into a fancy apartment building unnoticed?” It’s a rhetorical question. The bodyguard is about six-four, 250 pounds, and bald as a cue ball. He wouldn’t blend in anywhere. It makes Rav wonder what he did for the CIA. Tough to go undercover when you look like Dwayne Johnson’s stunt double. “Is there security or traffic cam footage of a guy fitting my description anywhere near the building that night? Oh, and I assume you’ve checked the hotel’s CCTV, too. Do you see me leave at any point that night?”

He’s entirely too patronizing for Rav’s liking. “We’ve already determined it’s possible to leave the hotel without being caught by the cameras. I imagine a man in your line of work makes a point of knowing where the security cameras are.”

“True. And maybe there’s an unidentified Latino man in the mix somewhere. But he ain’t me. That gun’s gonna come back clean, and it’s officially gonna be a dead end.” He shrugs. “I’m not trying to be a dick about it. In your shoes, I’d be going through the same motions. But I’d hate to see you waste too much time chasing your tails.”

“Would you?” Will snaps. He’s irritated by the bodyguard’s attitude, too. “The other day, you didn’t seem all that interested in us catching the guy who did this. As I recall, you said you’d like to buy him a drink.”

Morillo at least has the grace to squirm. “Yeah, that was a dumb thing to say. Vanderford was an asshole, but nobody wins when there’s a murderer on the loose. Especially when he’s in the orbit of the guy you’re protecting. Jack’s got enough on his plate.”

Rav hesitates. It’s not strictly relevant, but… “How worried are you about this stalker?”

“Which one? The Concord guy?”

Bloody hell, there’s more than one?

“On a scale of one to ten? If you asked me before the Concord thing, I’d have said maybe three. People spew all sorts of crap on social media. I could show you hundreds of posts from dozens of different accounts with threatening statements about the Nicks, especially the women. Jack and Sarah have both had their places broken into, and Claudia gets the creepiest letters I’ve ever seen. Then there’s the guy who threatened to cut out Jack’s tongue.”

“ Jesus ,” Will says.

“Sick, right? And the really messed up thing is, it’s not even that unusual. I mean, one of Bieber’s stalkers hired a couple of guys to cut his balls off. Point being, when you reach a certain level of fame, it comes with the territory, and it’s hard to know who’s all talk and who’s actually dangerous. But this Concord business is a whole other level. Showing up at a concert with a gun? That’s serious shit. So yeah, I’m plenty worried about Joe Miller.”

“Do you think he actually means Vale harm?” Rav asks.

“Hard to say. Guy like that, who knows how his mind works? But I’m not taking any chances. As of next week, we’ll have dedicated CPOs for each band member. We’d have done that anyway—the band always takes on additional security when they go on tour—but I made sure to bring in people I trust. Former colleagues, mostly, plus an ex-marine.”

“You’re monitoring Miller’s social media, obviously. Have you seen anything relating to Richard Vanderford?”

Will slides Rav a look, wondering where he’s going with this. There’s no reason to suspect any connection between Joseph Miller and Dick Vanderford. Except Rav still thinks it’s a hell of a coincidence that the New Knickerbockers find themselves embroiled in two gun-related incidents less than three weeks apart.

“Not that I’ve noticed,” Morillo says, “but I wasn’t on the lookout for that specifically. Wanna check?”

Rav fishes out his phone. “What’s his thing? TikTok? Truth Social?”

“Nah, if you want the really spicy stuff, it’s the online forums you keep an eye on.” He grabs a laptop on the coffee table and flips it open. “I’ll ask Erika about it, too,” he says as he types. “She’ll be joining us next week as Ryan’s CPO. She’s the one who set up the algo we use to flag content on social media. My team keeps a database of known stalkers, threats against the band, all that stuff.”

“Sounds like a sophisticated operation,” Rav says, grudgingly impressed.

“Hey, man, you want top-notch security, you can’t do better than ex-intelligence.”

They start with Reddit. Rav goes to write down the name of the sub, only for his fancy cartridge pen to explode, getting ink all over his hands. So much for getting what you pay for.

“Bathroom’s down that way,” Morillo says, pointing. “Second door on the right.”

It takes forever to scrub the ink off. As if that weren’t embarrassing enough, Rav gets turned around on his way back, unexpectedly finding himself in the lounge. How the hell do you get lost in a hotel room? He’s standing there like an idiot when Jack Vale bursts through the French doors, making a beeline for the terrace—and he does not look well. He’s white as a sheet and moving fast, disappearing through the sliding doors without so much as a glance in Rav’s direction.

It’s probably nothing, and almost certainly none of his business, but…

Rav follows him out onto the terrace. Vale is halfway to the rail already, pausing long enough to throw back some pills. He tosses the plastic container onto a chaise as he passes, and Rav can’t help stealing a look at the little orange bottle. Xanax.

Rav hesitates, glancing back over his shoulder. He’s not quite sure what to do here. The lawyer will have his arse if she catches him trying to talk to her client alone. But Vale is clearly on the verge of a panic attack, his PA is nowhere in sight, and Rav really doesn’t like the way he’s leaning over the glass railing. “Are you all right?” he calls from a respectful distance. “Can I get someone out here for you?”

Vale doesn’t respond. He’s gripping that glass as if his life depends on it, knuckles white.

“Mr. Vale?” Still no response. “ Jack .”

He turns. For a second he doesn’t seem to recognize Rav. Then he blinks and says, “Hi.”

“Are you all right? How’s your breathing?”

“It’s fine,” he says mechanically, turning back toward the park. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not, and that’s okay. Just tell me what you need.”

“I need…” He draws a shuddering breath. “I need it all to go away for five fucking seconds .” He shakes his head. “Sorry,” he whispers.

Rav joins him at the rail. He looks out over the park as if he’s just taking in the sights, but he’s listening carefully to Vale’s breathing, alert for any sign of real distress. His mum used to get panic attacks, and he knows the symptoms themselves aren’t dangerous, but he’s not taking any chances with Vale standing so close to the railing. “It’s beautiful up here, isn’t it?” he says casually. “Peaceful. Even the air smells better.” He takes a long, deep breath, hoping to entice Vale to do the same.

Vale flashes a tight smile. “Not your first time dealing with this, then.”

“And here I thought I was being very clever and subtle.”

“Not sure a guy in a bright blue suit can do subtle.”

“Fair,” Rav says with a startled laugh.

Vale jams his fingers under his jaw like he’s trying to take a pulse, but his hands are shaking, and he gives up after a second.

“May I?” Rav reaches out, and after a moment’s hesitation, Vale offers his wrist. Rav presses down until he feels the throb beneath his fingertips, racing but steady. He checks his watch, but he doesn’t really need the count. This is about reassuring the patient. “You’re okay. Just keep taking deep breaths.”

Vale grips the glass again and drops his head between his arms. “Talk to me? About anything. Whatever, just… I need to be anywhere but inside my head right now.”

If there’s one thing Rav Trivedi specializes in, it’s breezy bullshit.

“It really is beautiful up here,” he says, turning back toward the park. “Especially when you can actually see the view. I’ve been in this suite before, but it was at night, at a party. I’ve been trying to remember if we went skinny-dipping in that pool. I’m about eighty percent sure we did, but there was a lot of champagne. You’re a musician, you know how that goes. This was years ago, of course. I’d just moved here from London. Hadn’t quite outgrown my rebellious phase.”

“You have now?” The question sounds forced, but the fact that he’s able to engage at all is a good sign.

“Sadly, yes. One is obliged when one decides on a career in law enforcement. On top of which, I’m twenty-nine, which means that in three months I’ll officially be old. Now, I know what you’re thinking. He doesn’t look a day over twenty-five . All I can say is that I take my moisturizing regimen very seriously. How am I doing, by the way? Distracting you, I mean. The moisturizing is clearly a triumph.”

A shaky laugh. “I get the feeling you could do this all day.”

“Which proves you’re an excellent judge of character.”

Vale straightens, and then he stares out over the park for a while, the breeze tugging at his dark hair. “I like it up here, too,” he says eventually. “It helps. I get a little claustrophobic sometimes. That’s why they always set me up in this ridiculous room. They’re afraid if they put me someplace more closed in, I’ll lose my mind.”

“Ah, I see. You’re medically required to live in luxury.”

“Stop,” he says, wrestling a smile. “I feel weird enough about it as it is.” The smile fades, and he shakes his head. “I keep hoping I’ll get better at this.”

“The anxiety?”

“All of it. This whole…” He gestures behind him at the glittering penthouse suite. “But yeah, mostly that.”

“Have you been dealing with it long?”

“A few years now. Basically since…” Since Tommy died. He doesn’t say it, but he doesn’t need to. “It’s just a lot right now. Even before you showed up.”

Rav feels guilty. Guilty for contributing to the anxiety of a murder suspect . It’s absurd.

And yet there’s something disarmingly genuine about this man. Not at all what you’d expect from a pampered celebrity. What he’s dealing with is a lot. The pressure of fame. The death of his best friend. A stalker with a gun. And now, finding himself a suspect in a murder investigation.

“On a good day, it’s barely controlled chaos. Always someone telling you where to go and what to do, hustling you through a schedule you have no control over.”

“Like a dog on a leash,” Rav blurts—and instantly regrets it, but Vale doesn’t miss a beat.

“Like a dog on ten leashes, and they’re all being pulled in different directions.” He shakes his head again. “I’m sure that sounds dramatic, but I feel like I should explain why I’m pounding Xanax in a five-star hotel.”

“You don’t owe anyone any explanations about your health.”

He snorts softly. “Tell that to the media.”

“Horrible, aren’t they? I know a little of what it’s like to have them poking around your life, and it’s not pleasant.”

Vale glances at him out of the corner of his eye. “Seems like politicians get a pretty rough time in the British press.”

“They do, yes. Though in our case, they were usually more interested in my mother.”

“She used to be a model, right?” Vale freezes like a rabbit as soon as he says it.

Rav’s mum never changed her name. She goes by Eva Small. There’s no way Vale could possibly make the connection, unless… “Did you Google me?”

A hint of color touches Vale’s cheeks. “It’s not every day you get investigated in a murder case. I wanted to know who I was dealing with.”

“And?” Rav’s skin is warming too. He doesn’t know how to feel about this. The fact that Jack Vale would take an interest in him is quietly thrilling, but he shudders to think what the internet might have coughed up. Lord Trivedi’s son was in the spotlight a fair bit during the aforementioned rebellious phase, for all the wrong reasons.

Vale meets his eye for the first time since they got out here, and it sends a jolt of dopamine through his veins. “You seem like an interesting person. It’s too bad we had to meet like this.”

What if we hadn’t?

Rav wants to ask that and a hundred other things. He wants those incredible eyes on him for as long as possible.

He needs to leave. Right now.

“I should see how my partner is getting on,” he says, stepping away from the rail.

It’s abrupt to the point of being awkward, and Vale looks a little taken aback. “I thought you wanted to do a follow-up interview?”

“Now is not the appropriate time. I’ll make an appointment with your attorney if I need to. I’m glad you’re feeling better, Mr. Vale.”

Before Vale can even finish thanking him, Rav turns and walks away.